Written in the Stars
by rewrittengirl
Summary: What was once a forgotten  -and drunken -  one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy.
1. Wild Animals

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,994 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up next chapter.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** For this chapter, suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin'. For the rest onward, expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** Heyo! This fic came out of no where for me. It was originally just one of my many little fantasies of like "what ifs?", but I decided it would make a fantastic fic, as I was actually forcing myself to think up conflicts, rather than just giving our boys a quick happy ending. First Sherlock fic! Tell me how I do! I want to know how well I write Sherlock because I'm taking him up soon on an RP forum, and I wanted to get in as much practice as possible. REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

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><p>Just a little drink, to celebrate the occasion.<p>

At least, that's what it started out as. Then it became something else entirely. John Watson didn't know it yet, but that little celebratory drink would make him the happiest man in the world in just a few years time.

For now, at this point in time, the drink was for his feeling of accomplishment, and nothing more.

He sat at the local pub, and ordered a good strong beer. He had the biggest smile on his face possible, and the bartender stared at him with incredulity, but John didn't mind.

"Thanks," he said, accepting his glass with gaiety. "I'm leaving for Afghanistan next year, you see. I'm a bit excited." He beamed at his own words, taking a long gulp from his drink. The bartender shook his head, going back to wiping the counters.

Just then, as John so gleefully wiped his mouth of the foam residue, a man in a long overcoat and blue patterned scarf stumbled into the bar. His dark curly hair was damp from the rain, and his light eyes scanned the area for a seat. The place was a bit crowded, and the only one available seemed to be next to the good doctor. The soldier blinked at the strange man a few times. He was a peculiar fellow, tall and lanky, like a skeleton, and his long face displayed a look of intellectual snobbery.

He turned back to his beer, just knowing that the man would have to sit next to him. And sit next to him he did, ordering himself a drink and tapping his knuckles on the bar impatiently. John tried to preoccupy himself with sports on the television, but his attention kept drifting to the odd man beside to him. He glanced at him every once in a while, noticing how his mouth never altered from the unamused line of boredom, his eyes completely vacant save for that little glint of observation.

Odd indeed, John told himself. Most people who came into the pub were either drunkards or celebrating, like he, but this man's quiet, reserved nature was unusual. It was almost... no, it _was_ fairly fascinating.

"You're staring," the man suddenly said. John gave a little start, not even realizing the man had noticed. "It's rude to stare."

John paused, then gave a little awkward laugh. "You're right. Sorry, its just..."

The man turned his head, his expression unchanging, but the light in his eyes brightened a bit, as if he was analyzing John.

John rubbed the back of his head, a nervous blush rising to his cheeks. "Its just you're not like the people who normally come into this pub."

The corner of the man's lips quirked into a very small smirk, but it disappeared almost instantly. "Neither are you. You don't come here often at all. In fact you've only been to this bar three times in your life."

John raised his eyebrow. "How could you possibly know that?"

The man shrugged, turning back to face the wall. "Your demeanor, of course. A man first coming to a bar would display apprehension, perhaps a little bit of insecurity, afraid one of his friends or coworkers might walk in seeing him drinking, something he never does. A man coming into the bar for the second time would be a bit nervous, but try to make small talk with the people around him, perhaps telling awkward and unfunny jokes. You, on the other hand, have now started to become accustomed to the bar, courteously avoiding small talk and sipping your drink in contemplative silence. If you had come to the bar to get wasted, as a regular would, you would have already engaged me in lively conversation. Therefore, you have only been here three times."

John stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. "That... That's amazing! How do you know all that?"

The man gave a small scoff-like laugh. "Well it's rather obvious. You just don't seem to take the effort to notice."

The doctor's brow furrowed. "Obvious? I never would have guessed any of that in a million years!"

The stranger rolled his eyes. "It's not _guessing_. It's the science of deduction." His gaze strayed from the wall to the ceiling, slightly bored but nevertheless insulted. He shook his head in dismay, adding, "You simple minded folk and your guessing. And no man could possibly live a million years, so it is useless to elude to it."

John was a little dejected by his comments. "Simple minded? I assure you, sir, I'm a doctor. Not simple minded at all." He nodded his head and took a strong sip of his beer to further his point.

"Oh yes, I know. You don't hide your identity very well, Dr. _John Watson_." He laughed, a grin spreading across his face as he nodded to John's coat pocket. "Your name tag is sticking out of your jacket, where you so carelessly placed it in a hurry to get out of the office earlier today. Are you meeting someone here? A lady friend, perhaps?" His eyes finally gleamed with vivacity. He was obviously enjoying making a fool of the doctor.

John flustered a bit, tucking down the mentioned name tag. "Uh, no, no... I'm just celebrating, that's all."

The man looked at him again, no doubt trying to "deduce" what could be the cause of his merriment. "You're in the army," he said with little moment's notice. "And you're being shipped off to either Iraq or Afghanistan next year. You're no doubt joyous because you get to 'fight for our country,' as many so... ahem... eloquently put it." His bemused expression was incredibly aggravating to John, as he smugly took a long sip of his drink.

John threw his hands in the air, signaling defeat. He smiled awkwardly, but laughed. "Okay, I give up. You win. How did you deduce that?"

The stranger nodded to John's chest. "You're wearing a dog tag necklace that looks brand new, just been worn. If you had already been on the battlefield there would be clear signs of damage and scuff marks. I deduced that you are to be deployed next year because you have clearly just received the necklace, and it is in my knowledge- which I assure you is very vast- that soldiers are given tags one year before they are scheduled to be called to arms. Whether they are actually needed, however, is an entirely different story."

John leaned on the counter with his head resting on his knuckles, a large grin of incredulity spread across his face. "That is absolutely brilliant," he remarked. He shook his head in disbelief. The odd man had his full attention now as he delved into his second drink. "Really, though, how do you do that? Are you some sort of private eye?"

The man smirked, rolling his eyes again, something John had _deduced_ he'd done often in his life. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world, actually. I invented the occupation." A small sip.

John looked amused. "And this job has worked for you so far, Mr...?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And it is not a job to me. It is a life choice, as some would say. I consider myself married to my work." Another sip, this one much larger than the last.

John shrugged, chuckling. "Well I sure wish I had that sort of dedication, Mr. Holmes. Or should I say Detective?"

"Just Sherlock will do, thanks."

Watson raised his eyebrow. He stuck out his hand with friendly grin. "Just John then, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely glanced at the hand and nodded. John withdrew it awkwardly, and sipped his beer. It was now his third glass, as all this magnificent deduction had rendered him in need of more drinks. He was still in disbelief, but his mind was opening up to new things with each sip he took.

"You live around here?" he asked in conversation.

He thought he saw Sherlock's eyes flicker to him and a smile flash on his face, but when he looked again he had gone back to staring at the wall, a new glass of his drink sitting in front of him, as if it had appeared out of thin air. "I live on Baker Street." He gave no inclination that he wished to know where John lived.

So John didn't tell him. He didn't particularly care, but he felt conversation in the middle of a pub was the only way to keep one entertained, unless you were hammered.

Though he was getting that way. His eyes started to get a little droopy, and he felt a bit more confident in his actions. "Are you always this obnoxiously silent, Sherlock?"

Sherlock actually laughed, for real this time, and not in a condescending tone. He must have been getting drunk too, as it was unreal the speed he now went through his glasses. The bartender had to keep watch to make sure he could keep up. "One cannot be obnoxiously silent, John. Only blatantly silent, or obtusely loud." He giggled -giggled! - at his own idea. He was now fully turned toward John, as if the other man had finally triggered something in his _obnoxious_ brain to render him curious and interested.

John had to laugh with him, liking the way Sherlock's smile lit up his features, unlike his former frown. He could tell this man didn't go out much, not to socialize, or really to just _go out_, like a normal human being.

"You're a very interesting character, Sherlock. I dare say I've never met another man like you before."

Holmes rolled his eyes playfully, resting his face on his palm, propped up against the counter. "Don't 'dare say,' because you know damn well you haven't and never will meet another man like me. I can promise you that."

John pursed his lips, but grinned. "You're very confident in yourself."

The detective shook his head. "No, I'm just stating facts. I only ever state facts," he giggled out. The giggling seemed unlike him, even though John had only just met him. He was almost glad that he was able to bring out a bit of fun in the man, if only while he was drunk, which he could tell he was.

Suddenly, a large party of wild animals (read: cackling drunkards), moved past the both of them, and John realized they had left a round type of booth ready and waiting for use. He gestured over to it where the bus boy was almost finished cleaning it up. "What's say we move over there, hmm?" He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to Holmes suggestively. He was completely drunk off his rocker now (though he would never sacrifice his eloquence for the bottle), and he had no doubt the detective was as well.

Sherlock grinned, giggling again like a little schoolgirl. "I believe you are suggesting something, Dr. Watson... I'm not entirely inclined to accept the suggestion, much less give into your obvious flirtations."

Watson grinned like a cat, ready to pounce.

* * *

><p>Holmes did give into his suggestion, and his flirtation. A few hours later <em>they<em> had become the wild animals (read: cackling drunkards), and had easily alienated most of the bar, not caring in the slightest. John was thoroughly enjoying Sherlock's company, the detective relating to him cases of extreme secrecy that the Yard had trusted him in confidence. Not that Holmes cared about any of that political jargon.

"And then! And then and then!" the detective started to conclude his story with a very large gulp of his poison. "And then Lestrade turned around and saw the damned writing on the wall!" They both spurted with laughter. "It was right in front of his face!"

John's head was on the table, his entire body quaking with laughter. He banged his fist on the hard wood, his laughter high pitched and tears streaming down his face from hilarity. He sat up, clutching his stomach in laughter, even going so far as to lean against the equally amused Sherlock. They had started out on opposite ends of the round booth when they had moved there from the bar, and had gotten increasingly closer as the night progressed.

They were practically hanging all over each other now.

Glasses, napkins, and plates of food littered their table like a garbage dump, waiting to be devoured by a hungry goat. The waiter had steadily brought them food and drink, but had told them that they were closing in thirty minutes and that no more beer was coming. They had pouted at that.

That was twenty minutes ago, and now the lights were dimming in the pub, and both of the wasted men realized it was probably time to go.

Once their laughter quieted down into haphazard giggles, the two men had leaned back against their seat, shoulder to shoulder, staring at each other with distilled glee and pleasure. Their heads became droopy, and they both accidentally leaned their foreheads against each other, their throats giving off another fit of small giggles.

Suddenly, John couldn't help but realize how beautiful Sherlock's eyes were, especially when they were so alive like this, not in the analytical sense, but in the human sense. The change had made him catch his breath. He had watched, over the course of a few hours, the staunch and rigid man whose only thoughts were about deducing what flavor gum the lady next to him might have been chewing by the way her mouth was formed around it, turn into a very happy, lively, jovial, whatever you want to call it human being, who clearly displayed an attraction to the good doctor.

John wasn't so sure the attraction was one sided, either. The eyes, the eyes had it, they did they did. Ah hell, even his inner monologue wasn't clear with itself. What was he thinking at that moment? What was he feeling when Sherlock's chin rested on John's shoulder, his hand brushing up against his thigh in drunken teasing. The detective's sheepish grin was wide, and well, Watson couldn't help himself when his hand had a mind of its own.

It reached up and stroked those soft curls resting on the man's head, and he was very pleased with himself when the eyes beneath the curls closed with a sigh. He really couldn't help it when his whole body convulsed as Sherlock's hand roamed even further, getting closer to his already hardened erection. And he _really _couldn't help it when his lips leaned forward and kissed the man tenderly, if not drunken and sloppily.

Sherlock complied eagerly with his lips and let John lead, though it was poignantly clear that the taller man was far more experienced at kissing than Watson. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back, pulling him closer. His breathing became ragged when the man he was kissing squeezed his thigh, his other hand wrapping around John's waist. The detective's lips parted, inviting the doctor to do the same, and he moaned faintly as the man's tongue left his mouth, tracing the contours of John's lips with sensuality.

Another squeeze of his thigh, this time harder, more urgent, and farther up.

It became positively clear that he would not be alone in his bedroom that night.

"Ahem," they both heard from in front of their table.

The waiter was getting impatient, as he probably was the one to lock up that night, and couldn't until the "lovebirds" left.

The detective's eyes opened in a flash, and he moved from John's lips, leaving the man pleading for more. But being the ever rational one, Sherlock removed his hand and fumbled through his coat for his wallet. The bill lay in front of them on the table, and John sought out his own wallet as well, ready to split the bill.

He felt Sherlock's hand touch his searching ones. "Allow me," he said. "I just got paid for a recent case, though what the devil I would have done with the money in the first place, I have no idea." He threw the right amount of currency down on the table, and John was amazed that the man still had so much clarity and ability to think. He wondered if perhaps alcohol only affected his mood and his views on life, and not his thinking skills, like most all other people in the world.

They stumbled out of the booth together, and Sherlock almost slipped and fell on some spilled beer, but luckily, John caught his arm in time. Holmes looked up at him, his eyes displaying such utter trust that it was unbelievable that they had met only a few hours before. Any person passing by them might think they'd known each other for years.

The two giddy men left the pub together, staying incredibly close to one another, even going so far as to catching each other's hands every once in a while, fingers laced if only for a moment, laughter echoed across the uninhabited streets of London, and John found himself constantly forsaking looking where he was going for gazing into Sherlock's eyes, still amazed at their beauty.

It was an astounding sight, John must have thought, to other people. These two lively and drunk men, nearly arm and arm, walking along the street at night under the brightly lit stars toward God knows where. Well, Sherlock knew, as he was the one leading them. When they arrived at a certain apartment on Baker Street, clearly labeled 221B, John was astonished to realize that the same trust Sherlock had displayed not a few minutes before was shining in his own eyes, as Holmes looked down at him with such kindness, such strange longing, such absolute need for him, and dare he say it? Such love?

That was a silly idea. You can't fall in love when you're drunk.

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><p><strong>What'd ya think? As always, review my lovelies, review like the wind! I love you all! And don't forget to tell me how I did writing Sherly! I'm very self concious about it as it is, so some extra support in writing him would be much appreciated as I plan out how I'm going to play him on the roleplay site.<strong>

**Also favorite and story alert if you want to see more chapters!**


	2. Something Akin to I Love You

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 1,060 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on (not this chapter, I decided. I decided to leave the actual deed ambiguous. Use your imagination, folks! ;D)

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** AAAAAAH! You guys! I'm so happy you liked the story! I've never EVER had a popular fic before, and it tickles me pink that I got five reviews, two favorites and TWELVE ALERTS? SGOHIWEOGUJWEG HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE? I'm SOOOOO happy! Thank you guys so much! I decided to reward you with a rather short, albiet sweet chapter, and you can clearly tell what's to come in the next ones. This was originally going to be a chapter of seperate events that would be pointless to stretch out across chapters, but I felt the night after deserved its own chapter. The series of events will be the next chapter, and don't worry, we'll see Holmes again at the end of it. But most of it will be focused on John. As always guys, review review! Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>It was over.<p>

Of course John couldn't believe he'd done that, but people do stupid things when they're drunk. Like sleep with people they've only just met.

Sherlock had pried his hot body away from John's, and they lay beside each other, drinking in their silence. The doctor's heart was pounding, his head still woozy from the drinks, and he fumbled beside him for Sherlock's hand, gripping it just to assure himself that this was all real.

He didn't need that much reassurance though, when a deafening ring signaling someone's text message broke the silence. Sherlock groaned beside him, and he stumbled out of bed, letting go of John's hand. He fumbled through his discarded coat pocket, still completely disoriented from both the sex and the booze.

"Lestraaaaaade!" he whined, banging his head like a child against the floor. "I'm too drunk to deal with you noooow!"

John leaned over to look at him curiously, rubbing his nose and wondering if he'd received any text messages from the office himself. Sherlock texted Lestrade from the floor, his gangly legs sprawled out around him. He really did look like a child, and John had to chuckle at that.

Sherlock glanced up at him, slightly annoyed. "What are you laughing at?"

The other man moved away, stifling his laughter. "Nothing."

Holmes groaned when another text from Lestrade buzzed at his phone. "Lestrade wants me to come to this crime scene... Um..." He probably didn't know what to do with a man in his bed and his head fuzzy from the poison.

John stumbled out of the bed on his side, sliding on his underwear with some effort and continuing to get dressed. "I'll leave then, since you're busy."

He felt Sherlock's head peek up from the floor over the bed, and he turned to see a look of hurt. "You don't have to. I rather like you." He said it as if it was some grand occurrence. People started liking each other every day, didn't they?

John stopped, his pants midway up his legs, and stared at Sherlock for a moment. He smiled after, pulling his pants up completely and buttoning them. He leaned against the bed, making eye contact with Holmes. "I like you too."

Sherlock's eyes brightened, and the signs of a large grin appeared above the bed where the man was hiding his mouth. It was all rather adorable really, and John couldn't help but admit how fond of Sherlock he was getting. "Perhaps later then?" he offered. "Maybe we could grab a bit of coffee later. I really should get going, I'm... expecting a package this afternoon, and should be home to receive it." Lies. He wasn't leaving because of that. He was getting something in the mail, but he really just wanted to leave because he felt he was over staying his welcome. That's how it was with one night stands, wasn't it? You didn't over stay your welcome.

"You're lying, but I honestly don't care. Feel free to stay or go. I'm going back to sleep, Lestrade can wait." He climbed onto his bed and fluffed the covers and pillows around him. "I never realized how extremely tiring sex can be. I should probably have it more sparsely than often."

John was confused by that statement, but he didn't press it further. He pulled on his jumper and prepared himself to leave, checking his text messages with clumsy, still drunk fingers. The office _had_ called, but he wasn't so sure he was going to go into work that day. After all, he'd have a killer hangover in the morning, and so would the bloke currently snoring in front of him.

He turned to leave, smiling softly at the man in the bed, but then turned back. He stood there for a moment, drinking in his appearance as if he'd never see him again, or at least not for a long while. He probably wouldn't, and he felt that was a shame. Such a brilliant mind he had... Such hidden promise of friendship... Even love?

No no, that was silly John. You really didn't fall in love when you were drunk. Sherlock was very handsome, in a strange, unconventional sense, but handsome nonetheless. He didn't know how close he could get to him with the way he saw him before he was drunk. Hell, John didn't even know how they would feel about each other when they were sober. Maybe he'd drop by later, and see where things stood between them.

Probably not. He didn't feel obligated to Sherlock in anyway. But a pang of loss hit his heart when he thought about the prospect of never seeing those dark curls again.

So he strolled forward clumsily, almost tripping over Sherlock's long coat and scarf on the way there, and placed a hand on the bed. He leaned himself in, and pressed his face up against the man's hair. He smelled of mint and tobacco, traces of alcohol and sweat still lingering against his body. John smiled against the hair, and placed his lips on them, kissing them as if he'd never kiss them again. He hoped he would. He rather enjoyed the way the curls tickled at his nose, the way he felt absolutely content, the way he could feel Sherlock smile against his snoring and drooling, and the way his heart fluttered when he heard the man mutter in his sleep something akin to "I love you."

Love him? How could he love him? Was John falling for him himself? Or was this the booze controlling him? He probably never would have done any of this had he not been drunk, and he didn't doubt Sherlock felt the same way. In fact more so. He had gotten from the man a sense of uncaring before he had drunk his first glass. Now could both their true feelings be out in the open this way, as long as they were incoherent?

Well that was ridiculous. He just couldn't fall in love. Not when he was drunk. Could he?

He left then, leaving no trace of himself at 221B Baker Street. He just hoped he remembered what a wonderful time he had (and what a wonderful man he'd met) in the morning.

He wouldn't.

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><p><strong>Awww! Poor John being all doubtful of his feelings! You guys know what's gonna come next, since the fic IS an Mpreg. XDDD But you'll have to wait till the next chapter! <strong>

**REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! AND FAVORITE! AND ALERT! Btw, you can author alert me too if you like this story, because I have quite a few Sherlock fics planned, including drabbles, oneshots, and vignettes. Probably not another ongoing fic, but still. ^^ Catch you next chapter!**


	3. Prelude to the Color Pink

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 3,696 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** Yes, I know I just posted a chapter today, but I'm seriously obsessed with this fic right now, so you guys are going to have Christmas probably every day. XD If I have the time. I would have had this finished a lot earlier had it not been for my summer reading. XD THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR YOUR AMAZING REVIEWS AND HOLY CRAP OVER 20 ALERTS! *throws muffins into the air* THANK YOU SO MUCH! This chapter is pretty long, because its the series of events I was talking about last chapter. We don't REALLY get Holmes at the end, but Watson does meet him again (and of course doesn't remember him). Tell me what you think!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>Nothing.<p>

There was just nothing. He remembered nothing, he felt nothing, he heard nothing in his inner ear. His mind was completely blank as he woke up the next morning, head pounding and mind wiped clean. It was like he was in a sci-fi story where he knew too much, and they had to erase his memory. With beer.

He groaned, wishing he hadn't gone out now. He _was_ on his couch, face down, the morning news blaring on the tele in front of him. It was a good sign that nothing terribly bad had happened, since he'd made it home.

Coffee, probably, that would be swell. Wasn't he supposed to meet someone for coffee today? He couldn't remember, so he checked his phone. No appointments, just calls from the office asking him to come in.

Well, he wouldn't come in that day. Not when his head was pounding and he couldn't remember a thing from the night before. He trudged to the kitchen, grunting in pain when he turned the light on, his eyes probably red from the hangover.

He went through the motions of making coffee, not nearly as enthusiastic about it as he usually was. Perhaps he'd spend the day soaking in the tub, or crawl back in bed.

It was odd because he never drank that hard unless someone else was with him. He hadn't gone to the bar with Harry, _that_ would have been a bad idea. Had she met him there? No, no, he didn't think so. He was pretty sure she didn't particularly care about him celebrating going off to war. She was his sister after all. Why would she want him to risk his life like that?

Then who? Who could he have been with that got him that drunk? Or was he really that excited about fighting for his country...?

"_You're no doubt joyous because you get to 'fight for our country,' as many so... ahem... eloquently put it."_

A flash of someone speaking he didn't know. He stopped pouring his coffee in his mug for a second, trying to discern where the flash had come from. Maybe it was just his over active imagination...

Either way, his head was far too persistent in killing him by the end of the day that all inquiries into it were fruitless.

He drank it black, hoping the caffeine would wake him up. A few sips in, and he was already feeling better. He leaned on the counter, smiling and taking another sip.

Suddenly, a sick, acidic pain raced up from his abdomen, to his stomach, to his chest. He covered his mouth, setting the mug down on the counter and rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the contents of his stomach spilled into the bowl.

He groaned, thankful he didn't have anything to clean up later, and laid his head on the side of the seat. "Damn hangover..."

His stomach lurched again, and more alcohol and other substances left his body.

This was not going to be a good day.

* * *

><p>John was right. It wasn't a good day that day. In fact he hadn't had a good day since, as the hangover was kind enough to visit him every morning for five weeks.<p>

If he didn't know better (being a doctor himself), he would have diagnosed himself as a pregnant woman. Imagine that! He had all the symptoms, the crying, the vomiting, the cravings, the ridiculous romantic ideas that kept popping into his head, the mood swings, dreams of children...

But that was of course ridiculous. He was a man. Men couldn't get pregnant! Perhaps... No... Oh God, he had gotten some girl pregnant that night he was drunk, and was experiencing a sympathetic pregnancy. Even though he had no idea who the woman _was_.

No! He would of least had the decency to wear a condom! He knew they didn't always work...

But the dreams. He kept getting the feeling that he hadn't spent that night with a woman, but with a man. He dreamed of a man, making him cry with laughter and giving him company in his drunken celebration. He couldn't see his face, he was just a blur, but he knew he had enjoyed himself.

So a sympathetic pregnancy was out the window. But there was no way he could possibly be _really_ pregnant.

He decided to seek another doctor's opinion, even though he was more than qualified. He was a little out of his mind, and didn't trust his own personal advice, much less his medical ones.

"You're pregnant," the doctor said. So did the second, the third, and fourth, and fifth, that one a woman who had had 3 kids already. She was a specialist in pregnancies, and she could tell just by looking at him. She said it was the glow.

"I know a pregnancy when I see one," the woman said. "You should too, doctor. You should have diagnosed yourself. You said you recognized the symptoms."

He hung his head in his hands, sitting on the examining table with such disbelief that he looked positively exhausted. "You're insane. These tests HAVE to be faulty!" Watson wasn't going to give in to this lunacy.

The doctor put her hand on his shoulder. "Take my advice. Just get through it. You'll feel a lot better about yourself if you just accept it and move on." She shrugged with a smile. "And besides! Kids are fun, if not a little bit of a hassle."

John stood in defiance. "But I'm a _man_! A straight, completely normal, non-pregnant man!" His desperation wasn't winning her over.

"Apparently not, Dr. Watson," she sighed. "Look, I've seen cases like this before. Its some sort of freak accident that occurs at birth that doesn't manifest until... the right time." She raised her eyebrow in suggestiveness to indicate she meant sex. Homosexual sex.

He shook his head. "No. No. I'm _straight_. I've never had sex with a man in my life! I wouldn't want to! I mean, not that being gay is a bad thing, but... but... Its just not me!"

But there was that night. He didn't know what happened, nor who the guy was in his dreams. But if something had happened, that night, he'd clearly have his explanation for this debaucle.

She leaned on one leg, crossing her arms and looking at her with a look that said "don't deny it, this is all true."

"Don't look at me like that! I'm not pregnant!" he said.

She nodded to his stomach. "How do you explain that weight you've gained?"

"Over eating. I've been agitated lately, and I over eat when I'm stressed."

"So do pregnant women. Your mood swings?"

"I haven't sleeping well lately."

"Also attributed to pregnant woman. Weird cravings? Don't tell me that your stress has caused that too."

John glared. "I haven't been eating that weirdly..." Lies, he had. Last week he had eaten two helpings of fish'n'chips, covered in soy sauce.

The doctor merely glared back. "Do you really expect me to believe you, _mom_?"

John gulped, clutching at his stomach in fear. "But... If I am pregnant... How... I mean... Uh..." He looked down at the floor, not knowing how to put this.

Her eyes softened in understanding. "A Caesarean section is your best bed, hon." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to give my advice one more time, and I want you to follow it. Don't try to fight any of this, unless you want an abortion. I don't recommend them, most of the time, unless there are complications, but you seem to be perfectly fine. A man, but fine." She smiled at her own humor. "Just take it one day at a time."

John took deep breaths, contemplating all she'd said. Suddenly, a terrifying thought occurred to him. "I'm going to Afghanistan next year."

What was he going to do?

* * *

><p>Nothing.<p>

John awakened to nothing for the first time in months. He usually heard the sounds of the morning traffic outside his window, busy bees buzzing around his petunias outside the window, perhaps his sister in the kitchen, drinking or making food. But this was silence, glaring him in the face with urgent defiance. He could only guess why.

He lay in his bed, face up (you couldn't really lay face down with a very large stomach containing a living being), staring at the ceiling. He was going over the dream in his head, trying to figure out who he father of his child was. He lay a careful hand on his bulging abdomen. It was just a matter of waiting these days.

He wasn't really worried any more. Not about the social implications. He'd tried to quit his job, after telling his boss what happened. She wouldn't have it, and was kind enough to give him a maternity leave, labeled as a temporary suspension to other people in the office. He never went out. His still skeptical, but understanding sister brought him food and other necessities. He felt like a hermit, but he was safe from anyone who might not understand.

John wasn't worried about his sanity anymore either. He'd accepted that he was having a baby about two months after he'd found out, when the baby kicked for the first time. He was just going to have to deal with his issues with his sexuality later, since he really wasn't gay. What had been wrong with him that night? The booze?

He wasn't worried about much of anything anymore, to be perfectly honest, except the glimmer of hope that the baby would be born in time for him to recover before being deployed.

He didn't want to leave the child, but he really had to. He'd been wanting to go for the longest time. He could always tell his commanding officer that he'd "gotten his girlfriend pregnant, and had to now take care of the baby." But he didn't want to lie to the country. He felt that he would essentially be doing that if he stayed.

John also hoped beyond hope that he would return from the battlefield in something other than a stretcher. Or a coffin. He really couldn't bear the thought of abandoning the child growing inside him like that, no where to go, no one to take care of her (he'd finally given in last week and found out its sex). Harry wasn't very reliable. He was giving Dolores (the name he'd picked out for her) to her to take care of while he was gone (making sure they had a nanny), but if he'd died, or was seriously injured, he didn't know that he could fully trust his drunk sister to raise his daughter right.

This left him at a loss. If only he knew who the father was. Maybe he'd be more reliable... Or maybe not. He didn't know.

He did know, at that very moment, that his water had broken.

So much for the waiting.

* * *

><p>His heart had stopped the moment he saw her.<p>

He had been unconscious during the whole thing, per his request. He didn't want to fool with the craziness, the rush, the hassle of being awake. And the pain of course. Sometimes the pain leaked through the meds, he knew that from delivering a few kids himself. Call him a coward, but he wasn't ready for that. Save it for Afghanistan.

Or the moment he saw his daughter or the first time. There was plenty of pain in that. In a loving sense of course. Like, "Oh my God, is this really true? Is this my daughter? Is she really a part of me? Oh my God."

But in the form of erratic heartbeats.

He held her close, the two of them completely alone. Silence everywhere, apart from her sweet little gurgles and the beep of the monitor recording his heart rate. He could really hardly breathe, and didn't doubt that the monitor read out would be all over the place.

She had the darkest hair he'd seen in a baby, and a rather prominent nose at that. She had thin lips, and angled baby eyebrows. These things must have came from her other father, whoever he was. But the jawline and shape of the face was his, the little hands were his hands, and the way she licked her lips when he kissed her forehead was his. All his. He cradled her to his chest, as close as possible without hurting her.

This was the first time John Watson felt unconditional love for a human being. Sure, the rest of his family was important to him, but sometimes he could only barely tolerate his sister, who had been, until this little girl in his arms, the most important person in the world to him. Everything was new now, so many new feelings escalating in his mind and heart.

And now he was wondering, would her father feel the same way if he saw her? Would he feel the same exhilaration at stroking her hair, at her wrapping her tiny fingers over his thumb? Would he care about this creature as much as he did? He hoped so, because he vowed to find this man and let him know that they had created this little picture of joy together out of love.

Wait, love? It was a cliche, so he had used it appropriately. But he didn't even know who this person was, much less if he'd felt any inkling of love at all for him. He was drunk. You couldn't fall in love when you were drunk.

Or maybe you could, because in that moment, little Dolores opened her eyes for the first time, and John was drunk inside them. She stared up at him blankly, as most babies do, but only for a moment. Soon, her entire face lit up, and she laughed, squeezing his thumb. His breath caught in his throat, and in that single, beautiful moment, she looked like she loved him back. He knew she did.

In the same moment he saw her eyes for the first time, he realized he'd seen them before. In a dream, in a forgotten memory.

"She has your eyes."

He was startled by his sister's voice, and found her bending slightly down over them. "Harry," he said, smiling frailly at her frazzled appearance. She'd been out drinking when his water had broke, and she'd been apologetic ever since.

"Really, she does," she said. She touched her niece's cheek, smiling brightly at her. "She's got that look of determination. Not unlike a soldier I know..." she smirked, looking back at John.

He looked at his girl, noticing what she was talking about. "They're a different color..." he said.

John suddenly realized where he'd seen the eyes before.

They were _his_ eyes. The elusive man who clouded his dreams with fuzzy laughter. He couldn't remember them vividly, but the color and the intellect held inside them were the same. Another thing that was his, just like the hair, and the nose, and the lips. He'd never be able to escape from them.

"Are you alright?" Harry said beside him.

He was pulled out of his daydream, but nodded, smiling happy. "I'm wonderful." His heart was aflutter. He looked back at Harry. "Would you like to hold her?"

The woman looked surprised, but obliged, holding out her arms to take the baby. John reluctantly let her go, but in the end, he liked the way Harry looked while holding her. It seemed... right. A woman holding a baby.

Unlike him, in the hospital bed, after going through labor. It wasn't right, it didn't feel right. He was a man. But he didn't feel too much like one at that time. He felt like a woman, eyelids droopy from exhaustion. He wanted to doze off, as long as Dolores was taken care of.

Harry could tell. "Go to sleep, John," she said. "I'll make sure she's taken care of."

The words were like a death sentence buzzing in his ear, like the bees usually swarming outside his window. The caved in on him, forcing him to be buried in the crossfire, blood leaking over his pores and gunshots following them in his wake, carrying with them another thought, a frightening thought, that he didn't much want to address. Not when he'd look foward to going to Afghanistan for so long.

What if he didn't come back?

* * *

><p>John wouldn't have time to think about that, as not a few months later was he suiting up for battle. The trip to the airport had been long, his face taunt and unmoving. He couldn't bear leaving the little girl in the backseat behind.<p>

When he'd kissed her on the forehead in a final goodbye before stepping on the plane leading to his fate, he felt more longing than he'd ever felt before. His only solace were the notions that yes, he'd be returning soon if God permit, and that he wasn't really going to fight for his country anymore. He was going now solely based on the reason that he might make the world a safer, and happier, place for his daughter to grow up in. It was every parents wish, and he was thankfully that he could put himself into the action, to protect her and also provide for her in the world's time of need.

So the journey to the foreign land was filled with thoughts of her little face, gazing up at him with eyes he was sure resembled both her fathers, though he could barely recall the man who had given her his soft curls.

Maybe their fate was written in the stars, and they would cross paths again. Maybe he was a soldier, and he would meet him on the battlefield, and they could bond over the photograph he carried in his pocket of him and Harry, with Dolores in his arms.

But more than likely not.

* * *

><p>He had been home for some time, but his mind was preoccupied with terrors at night and boredom.<p>

Dolores was still with Harry, and he was looking for a flat that could accommodate them both, even if they shared only one bedroom. Just someplace other than a place given to him on government pension. He felt useless enough as it was, shot in the shoulder, his legs in need of a crutch.

He couldn't even remember his dreams anymore before the war, the ones of the fleeting laughter he shared with the man who was his daughter's father. All he saw was the battlefield raging on. The medicine would only go so far, and the damned empty blog just sat there on his computer, waiting to be written. Perhaps he should write about his little girl? His quest for a flatmate? His dreams for the future, his goals, his goddamn day?

Whatever the case may be, he was at his wits end. He needed a job, and needed a flat.

But where the hell could he find someone who'd want to room with a mentally unstable doctor and his crying baby?

* * *

><p>The doctor was the type of man who enjoyed the human body. No, not in <em>that<em> sense, but in the sense that it fascinated him. This was one of the reasons he had become a doctor. He loved to take care of people, and find out the causes of anyone and everyone's problems.

It was another reason he'd joined the fight in Afghanistan. To help the sick, the wounded, and the dying, as they faced the opposing side with vigor, rather than contempt.

He had seen many dead bodies as well. It was a part of the job. He didn't like their deaths, but he knew to be professional about it all. However, he liked solving the mysteries of cause of death that his job as a doctor required. It made him feel accomplished and exhilarated, knowing he had contributed to understanding the science of death just a bit more. He preferred dealing with living patients, but it was like Christmas when he was faced with a body.

Though he was always the professional.

Like he was now. The only difference was, instead of the sepia toned filter he placed over the dead and gone in order to distance himself, the room was lit by one specific color.

Pink.

* * *

><p>Another day, saving a person's life. He felt obligated to Sherlock, after all, and didn't want the man to give in to that damned drug. He must have felt the same adrenaline rush John felt when he pulled the trigger, knowing he might die, knowing he might not. The man was an adrenaline junkie, and it was no wonder he went and solved cases for the Yard as if it was a hobby. Well, let's be honest. It <em>was<em> a hobby to Holmes.

It didn't help that he had leaked his love of the chase over to Watson slightly. The man didn't have to think twice about moving in with him. He'd saved his life, after all.

He didn't like much about the man. Not his rudeness, nor his general lack of hygine, nor his violin playing, nor his missing social etiquette.

But he was an interesting companion, and made a great addition to his blog.

He couldn't help but think he'd met the man somewhere before. Maybe he'd been sick once and he'd taken care of him at the office, before the war. Maybe they met at some cafe, and shared a cup of coffee. He couldn't honestly remember. He'd figure it out eventually, but he was just thankful that he'd found a place for him and his daughter to live.

Speaking of which... Dear God, he hadn't even bothered to mention his moving in required a plus one contract at all to Sherlock.

Dammit.

* * *

><p><strong>Dun dun DUUUUUN! How is John going to break it to Sherlock that both he AND John's daughter is moving in? Will Sherlock immediately recognize his eyes in Dolores's? Why does John STILL not remember Sherlock? And where the HELL is that tea, Watson? *Sherlock angry face*<strong>

**XDDDD Anyway. Hope you liked it. I got a little teary eyed when I wrote John seeing his daughter for the first time! *sniffles* So sweet and emotional! If only Sherly could have been there. The old cad, forgetting about our John. They'll both remember later on. Not TOO soon, mind you! **

**As always! Read and review and favorite and alert! (Damn that's a mouthful!) We'll be seeing more Sherlock next chapter as he's introduced to his daughter (w00t!). Till then guys! ^^**


	4. Insults

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 805 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** *le gasp* THREE CHAPTERS IN ONE DAY! HOW DOOOOOOOES SHE DO IT? Simple. I have TOOOONS of muse. And it helps that I'm progressivly getting better writing as Sherlock. So you all have tons of goodies to look over. I know this chapter is very short, but I gave it to a couple of friends to read, and they said it was fine as is. I happen to agree with them. ^^ And hey, you guys got an EXTRA long chapter last time. So no complaining! ;D Enjoy the chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>"<em>What <em>is that?"

His nose was turned up at Dolores, the bow of his violin pointed in her direction disdainfully. Typical. John had foreseen something similar happening when Sherlock found out about the doctor's daughter.

The man sighed. It was only a matter of time before he kicked them both out, he knew it.

"You mean 'who' is that, right?" Of course he didn't. "Sherlock, this is my daughter, Dolores." He smiled down at her. "Dolores Amelia Watson."

Holmes flicked his bow back and slid it across the strings. John was afraid Dolores would be bothered by the mindlessly loud noise, but she seemed content. Strange for a baby. Sherlock played terribly, at least when he was trying to.

"Do you _want_ the child to be a stripper, John?" he asked nonchalantly, not even bothering to look up.

John glared, wrapping his arms about his girl tighter. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, flitting about the apartment, his bow gliding across the strings of the violin. "Really John, didn't you pay attention to your reading assignments in school? Lolita? The promiscuous young girl? Her name was Dolores Haze."

John looked from the taller man to Dolores, and frowned. "Well... Its a beautiful name..." he mumbled, turning his head in defeat. "You don't have to call her Dolores. Amelia or Amy will do."

"Who says I have to call her anything? She's not staying here, is she?" He genuinely looked like he didn't know.

The doctor shifted the baby in his arms. "No, Sherlock. She's staying around the corner at the drunkards will raise her nicely, don't you think?" Heavy sarcasm. "Of course she's staying here, you damn git!"

He'd had just about enough of Sherlock's insults and jibes for one day. First he ridiculed his intelligence after John found a foot hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen by a piece of yarn (he said John was being ignorant of the fact that foots are far better observed when elevated above the ground), then he analyzed his sister (who had been helping John move in) when he wasn't in the room (he'd told her, in his own eloquent, analytical form of speech, to get a life), and he practically jumped down his throat for being clumsy when he almost tripped and broke the "skull" (luckily Sherlock had caught it in time). He didn't know if he could handle the man insulting his daughter.

Sherlock merely smirked. "Ha. Ha. I'm so amused." He glared at the girl for a moment, then played a quicker tune, probably to annoy John and his constant fussing over Dolores' hearing loss. "And I suppose I'll stick with Dolores. As long as she doesn't bother me."

This surprised Watson. "You don't mind? Really?" He'd figured he did, what with his immediate reaction to the girl. "I mean, she's very quiet, usually doesn't cry for much but food, and I'll keep her in my room, and-"

Sherlock waved off John's incessant worries with his bow. "John, you're making her sound like a lost pup! I said she could stay. You really have no listening or observation skills whatsoever, do you?"

John rolled his eyes. Another jab at his intelligence. Very funny Sherlock, very funny.

The man started toward the stairs, about to lay the baby down in the crib that he and Harry had set up while Sherlock was engrossed in his research, when Sherlock laughed. "Did her mother abandon the girl on you?"

John stopped mid-step. "Yeah, something like that," he said automatically. He had become so accustomed to lying about how his child was conceived that it flowed naturally from his lips.

Sherlock continued to play his violin, of course still analyzing the pair in his mind. "You were both drunk, and she dropped the child on you unexpectedly once it was born. She obviously didn't care what happened to it, as you probably didn't know the woman to begin with. You, being the caring and fatherly type, agreed to take her. Now isn't that right?"

John chose his words carefully, not wanting to alarm Sherlock's hypersensitive observing skills to any changes in his behavior. "Did you know I had a daughter since the moment we met?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he just flopped down on the settee and played his violin slowly, looking up at John with droopy bangs. "Shouldn't you lay her down? She looks dreadfully exhausted judging from her lack of vivacity. Really, John, you're doctor. You should know these things."

He looked away, and John cursed the day he was born as he trudged up the stairs, doing exactly what he'd suggested.

Bastard.

* * *

><p><strong>As always, review my lovelies! ^^<strong>


	5. She's Not Worth His Time

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,536 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** Told you I had tons of muse! I'm very proud of this chapter, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it! Thanks for all your amazing reviews and love! I'm just so honored that you guys like my writing! ^^

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>"JOOOOHN! John, get this thing off of me!"<p>

John walked in on this scene: his daughter climbing all over Sherlock, the papers strewn about the detective on the floor clearly having signs of being trampled by a toddler's crawling. The doctor had to chuckle evilly at the sight. Serves him right for calling Amy a thing. He was far too stoic toward the girl, and really should give her more thought than he did.

"I think you're fine on your own, Sherlock," John said as he adjusted his cuffs. He pulled on his coat and fiddled with his watch, glancing up every other moment with bemusement at the other man. "Can you watch her for a bit? I'm going out with this girl I met at the job."

Sherlock looked at John with amazement. "You can't be serious? No, no, I take that back, you're incredibly serious. But what are you thinking?" He tried prying himself out of the girl's death grip on his robe. "You can't leave me here with her!"

"Why? You haven't had a case in weeks. She'll keep you stimulated," Watson said. He smirked at Holmes' futile attempts at getting rid of his daughter. She was quite the handful, especially when she had started crawling. There wasn't an place in their flat that she wouldn't explore. "And she likes you."

Sherlock grabbed the baby under her armpits, lifting her up and examining her like a scientific specimen. "I can't imagine why." The little girl tilted her head to the side, sucking on her pacifier and examining Sherlock just as he was her. It was very comical.

"She does," John admitted. "You're the only one she's ever been around that she doesn't start screaming when she's near them. Well, you and Mrs. Hudson, of course." He leaned on the door frame, glancing at the floor around the detective. "What is all that anyway?" he asked, nodding to it.

Holmes set Amy down two feet next to him, motioning her to stay, like he would a dog. "Stay," he even said! "Staaaay, Dolores, stay." She just stared at him incredulously. He sighed in relief, turning back to his work, finally answering John. "Its a puzzle that someone on my website sent me. I told the world I was bored, and the world answered."

John rolled his eyes at his answer. Typical Sherlock, thinking he monopolized the world. He laughed mockingly. "Maybe Amy can help you, then," he joked. He strolled toward them both, and picked up his daughter just as she was about to crawl back over to Sherlock. He turned her to face him, leaning his forehead against her dark curls. "You're going to be good for Mr. Holmes, aren't you Amy?"

Sherlock scoffed under them. His legs were crossed with one hand on his thigh, leaning over a piece of paper and scanning it for clues, a marker in his hand. "Please, John, you make me sound like Mycroft."

The man laughed above him, giving the girl a soft kiss on the cheek and hugging her tight. "See you later, sweetheart." He lowered her for Sherlock to take.

The man ignored him. "Sherlock..." John growled. Holmes looked up, sighing and rolling his eyes, taking the girl begrudgingly. He set her in his lap reluctantly, after realizing she wouldn't give up until she was completely driving him insane. Surprisingly, she snuggled into him, sucking on her pacifier and closing her eyes. She looked completely content.

"See? Told you she likes you, you old cad," John said, ruffling Sherlock's hair in jest as he moved to the door.

"Don't touch my hair."

"Don't wait up for me."

"Piss off."

It was really no wonder everyone thought them a couple.

* * *

><p>He was hoping this date would go smoothly. He could really use a girlfriend, and maybe even a wife one day. It had really always been his dream to settle down, have some kids. Well, half of that dream was complete. He just needed himself a nice girl to finish the picture.<p>

He'd met Juliana when she'd brought in a sick little boy whom she had been taking care of while his parents were away. The boy's fever had cleared up in a few days after John prescribed him some medicine, but _his_ fever for his babysitter was just only getting started. She was a right pretty thing, strawberry blonde hair and large brown eyes, an odd combination, but striking nonetheless. Her complexion was fair, but glowing, and John could tell she took care of herself, unlike so many women he'd seen struggling to get through life (she was rather poor).

He'd invited her for coffee just before her and the boy had left his office, and they'd both hit it off splendidly. He'd been busy as of late at the office, but he'd finally got a day off, and elected to spend the day with the woman.

"Is that your daughter?" she piped up next to him.

John stopped short. He had been buying a paper when she surprised him. "Juliana! I was going to pick you up!" He looked down at where her gaze lie. It was the picture he kept of he, Harry and Amy. "Uh, yes, that's my girl."

Her eyes softened. "Your wife was very beautiful," she said unexpectedly.

John blinked, stuffing his wallet back in his coat pocket and grabbing the paper from stand, handing the cash to the salesman. "What, no! Um, I mean..." he blushed. "No, the woman in the picture is my sister. I-I've never been married."

The blonde looked confused. "Then how-"

"It was a one night stand," he lied (though it wasn't far from the truth. It _was_ a one night stand, just not your typical one). "I had no idea about the kid until she dropped her off on me, left me flat."

Her soft brow furrowed. "That must have been terrible. Did you say you had been to Afghanistan?" she asked, looping her arm through his as they walked through the streets, each of them thinking about where they wanted to go.

"Yes... I had to leave her with my sister, you see. I'm rather glad I was shot, otherwise I couldn't have come back so early." He smiled softly, adjusting the paper under his arm. "Now, where would you like to go?"

She was thoughtful for a moment. "The park sounds lovely!"

John was really beginning to like Juliana. "To the park it is!"

They strolled arm and arm to the park, and John suddenly had the deepest feeling of deja vu imaginable. Hadn't he walked this same street, arm in arm with someone else, over a year before?

He really couldn't remember.

* * *

><p>Now he was bored.<p>

It wasn't her fault, poor thing. He'd just now realized that the woman must not have had a lot of people interested in her, and had been shy all the times they'd met before.

Now she just talked.

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. He could feel a migraine coming on as he twirled at his pasta. They had long since left the park and were eating dinner at Angelo's. In fact... He just now realized that they were sitting at the same table he and Sherlock had sat the day they had met. He smiled softly, his head leaning against his palm, staring down at at his plate.

"_You have a girlfriend?"_ he'd said. Sherlock had said no. _"Boyfriend?"_ He'd gotten the wrong idea at that. Not... Not in a million years! No, never. He couldn't even think about that. Yes, he enjoyed Sherlock's company (however unconventional he was), but he was straight. He felt nothing more for Sherlock than a small bit of trust.

Trust... Hadn't he trusted someone else before with all his heart?

"John... John!"

He was startled. "Yes, yes sorry... Just thinking about my daughter, 's all." He was rather tired, and still bored. No wonder he'd taken to thinking about Sherlock. He was much more exciting than _Juliana_.

"I said, and then he said '20 quid? I'd sell my grandma before I sold you that at that price!'" She cackled at her own droning anecdote. John groaned internally. This was a bad idea. He could have been home with Amy right now, laughing at how much she bothered Sherlock. She was really a sweet little girl, if not a little odd. She was resembling John more and more every day, and it was no wonder she loved to bother the detective. He needed to be bothered every once in a while. Otherwise he might go bored and turn to those damn drugs (something he truly didn't approve of). Sherlock said he was clean, but he wasn't so sure he believed him. So bother him he did, just to keep his mind occupied. He commended his daughter for doing the same when he wasn't around.

"John, you're still not listening to me."

"I'm really sorry, Juliana, but I just can't stop thinking about Amy."

She sighed. "That's alright. Its nice to see a man so _caring_ and thoughtful about his daughter." She smiled eerily, like she was hinting at something else, her hand crawling toward John's on the table.

He panicked, and used that hand to pull out his phone, pretending to check text messages from the office. "Just making sure they don't need me," he mumbled.

He was really texting Sherlock.

_New message: 8:47 PM_

_The woman across from me is ridiculous._

_-JW_

"You're so very dedicated to your work," she said.

_New message: 8:49 PM_

_The woman across from you is probably undressing you with her eyes._

_-SH_

"I wish I had a job I was that dedicated to. I'm just a temp and an occasional babysitter."

_New message: 8:51 PM_

_The woman across from me is being far too obvious for her own good._

_-JW_

"What's a girl to do, you know? Here in London... I wish I had a man to protect me."

_New message: 8:52 PM_

_The woman across from you really can't take a hint, can she?_

_-SH_

"You're lucky you're so well off, being a doctor and all. You must get paid very, _very_ well."

_New message: 8:55 PM_

_The woman across from me is a gold digger._

_-JW_

"John! John you really aren't listening to me! Who the hell are you texting?"

_New message: 8:56 PM_

_The woman across from you isn't worth your time._

_-SH_

John laughed. "The woman across from me isn't worth my time..." he repeated without thinking.

He heard the woman gasp, and felt a cold splash of champagne fly into his face.

Right... So much for getting a girlfriend.

* * *

><p>John returned home about 30 minutes later. He was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who had the largest grin on her face. "Come here, John! Come look what they're doing!" She couldn't stop giggling, the sweet old lady.<p>

"Mrs. Hudson, what's going on?" John asked, curious. He still felt sticky from the champagne thrown in his face, and just wanted to take a shower and crawl into bed. It had been much to long a day for anything else.

She dragged him to the door of the flat, and opened it, pushing him to peer inside the living room area. She was so giddy and smiling that he had to comply.

Though it didn't take more than a few seconds for his own face to stretch into a large grin when he looked into the living room.

They were asleep. Not unusual for Amy, but for Sherlock it was. Even more unusual was the fact that he was sprawled out on the couch, drooling against the cushion, television blaring some mindless cop show, and John's daughter, resting on his chest and sucking on her pacifier. Sherlock's arm was protectively around her, the other dangling from the couch, twitching every few seconds (because of his dream no doubt). Amy was curled up into a ball, and clenched at Sherlock's robe tight.

It was probably the most adorable thing John had ever seen.

It was only then that he noticed what a complete mess the flat was.

Papers were strewn everywhere, some sort of strange red liquid was dripping from the walls, his daughter's toys littered the floor and furniture, the kitchen a living hellhole of something he didn't even want to address, and more than one gunshot littered the wall opposite the tele.

"Mrs. Hudson... What the_ hell_ happened here?" He stood in complete shock, unable to even blink his eyes away. It was like a car crash. You didn't want to look, but you just _had_ to.

"Oh, I let them have their fun. I told Sherlock he better play nice with the girl, and I think they both enjoyed themselves, don't you?" She was really such a batty old lady. He didn't know what to do with her. "I just told him he'd be cleaning up his own mess. I'm not your housekeeper!" She threw her hands up and trudged back down the stairs.

"I-I'll clean it all up..." John said numbly, walking toward the living area and picking up a few toys along the way.

He couldn't help staring at the two laying on the couch together. His heart fluttered in happiness that his flatmate was finally getting used to his daughter, and he felt an immense weight being lifted off his shoulders. He really didn't want to know what they had been doing all day, but it was nice to see them get along.

John moved toward the couch, smiling at Sherlock's peaceful face. It was rare that he ever saw the man at ease, always working, brow always furrowed, trying to solve a case. It was almost...

"Beautiful," he whispered. He saw Sherlock's eyes flutter slightly, but he didn't wake.

John shook his head. Now _that_ was ridiculous. Men weren't beautiful, and if they were, then certainly not Sherlock.

Now John's daughter on the other hand, now _she _was beautiful. He decided not to disturb either of them, and bent down to kiss the girl's forehead. "Goodnight, Amy."

He turned toward the stairs, about to make for the shower, when he thought he heard a small, very male and very Sherlock voice whisper in the night.

"Goodnight, John."

John's heart almost stopped. He turned back to Sherlock, and he was still the way he'd just seen him before. He shook his head, clearly imagining things, and turned off the tele for the detective, climbing the stairs to a nice hot shower.

He suddenly heard a voice again, in his head, but the sound of it was neutral, as if he couldn't remember where it was from, who it was, or whether it was a man or a woman.

But it was something akin to _"I love you."_

* * *

><p><strong>WHY CAN'T YOU REMEMBER HIM JOHN? WHY? HE'S STARING YOU IN THE FACE AND YOU JUST CAN'T SEE THAT HE HAS THE SAME EYES AS YOUR DAUGHTER!<strong>

**XDD Anyway. Yes, I know, you guys didn't like Juliana the moment she entered the scene. I've got some bad news for you guys... John IS going to date Sarah in this. *le gasp* yes, yes I know. Don't worry though, our boys will end up together eventually. It just takes time.**

**As always, read and review!**


	6. Crime Fighting

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 1,416 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** Okay, so I'm moving and my mom took the internet connection to the new house. I'm using a nearby connection (go wi-fi!) to update, but I won't be on or update again for a few days. Just got done chugging out this chapter! I wanted to add to it where they're at the crime scene, but that can be next chapter! Enjoy guys! Wish me luck on moving! And school starts next week too! WOOHOO! (I wasn't being sarcastic, I'm actually excited. XD)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>"People really underestimate the use of a good spyglass, John."<p>

That was what John walked in on. Really, couldn't Sherlock wait till he was actually in the room before speaking to him? "What are you talking about, Sherlock?" he asked, straightening his jumper and preparing himself to clean up the mess from yesterday.

"A good spyglass. People... underestimate it..." His eye peered through said gold spyglass out the window, clearly watching something with anticipation, as his attention was waning from the other man in the room.

John waved over to get his attention. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

The man merely glanced at him for a moment, and took more than a few seconds in contemplation before replying. "Thinking..." He leg was perched on the windowsill, looking out of his spyglass like a pirate captain.

"That didn't answer my queston."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning the spyglass to focus it. "I'm following Lestrade on his journey here, isn't it obvious?"

"Why would that be- Oh, you know what, nevermind... I don't even want to know your answer," John said in exasperation. He wasn't looking foward to cleaning up the mess Sherlock and his daughter had made, but he'd get it over with anyway. He started to pick up more of the toys, dropping them in the bin for them next to the tele. "How do you know know Lestrade is coming to see us?"

"He's using the route he always uses when visiting us with a case. Thank. God." The man was clearly bored, and could use a bit of crime to liven his bleak mood. He kept moving the spyglass to follow the police car, his smile growing by the second.

John shook his head and rolled his eyes. "What happened here yesterday while I was gone, anyway? And where the hell is Amy?" His daughter was nowhere in the living room, and he immediately panicked.

"Kitchen..." the detective said with contempt in his rising voice. "And what we did yesterday is none of your business."

John looked at him incredudously, turning to the kitchen and seeing his daughter trying to climb onto the counter. "You couldn't bother to place her in her crib?" He walked briskly over to her and picked her up gently, smothing out her tangled hair and kissing her forehead.

"And disturb you? Never!" Sherlock said with heavy sarcasm.

The doctor sighed, bringing her into the living room and setting Amy on the couch. "Stay here, sweetheart," he mumbled, ruffling her hair and moving back to the mess. "You don't happen to want to help me, do you?"

No answer for a few moments, but finally, "I straightened all the papers this morning."

John scoffed. "Because they're yours and you need them! Can you really never be a decent enough human being and help your best friend?"

Sherlock was silent, and John got the feeling that he'd said something the man hadn't anticipated. That he was his friend? But he knew that... didn't he? "Sherlock?" he said to get his attention.

The man returned with a jolt, blinking and rubbing his eye where the spyglass was. "What, sorry...?"

John grunted. "Hmm. Sorry my arse..." he mumbled. "Can you please help me?"

He grinned widely when he saw the police car park in front of 221B Baker Street. "No time, case to solve!" He closed the spyglass with a slap of his hands, spinning around as he almost hopped to the door in joy.

His friend chuckled. "Of course..." It was adorable when Sherlock got excited about a case. It was a wonderful cure for the man's boredom, and John (or Dolores) didn't have to bother him nearly as much when he was trying to solve a crime. He turned around and noticed the red liquid had hardened over night on the walls. "Sherlock, what is all this sticky..." he touched the wall in disgust, "Red liquid all over the walls?"

Sherlock was bouncing up and down in front of the door, waiting for Lestrade to trudge up the stairs. "What? Oh, really John, you should be able to discern ketchup from 'sticky red liquid,'" he stated, clearly insulted by his flatmate's lack of intelligence.

John walked to the kitchen and grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink, prepared to scrub it off the walls. "Its really the same thing," he mumbled.

Just then, Sherlock flung the door to the flat open. "Morning, Lestrade. I believe you have a case for me."

The detective inspector slapped a casefile into Sherlock's chest and entered, nodding to John (who was busy cleaning the wallpaper), and smiling at the giggling baby on the couch. "Seems like your constant pestering these past two weeks has paid off, Sherlock," he said. He looked confused at the ketchup on the wall, but said nothing, as things like this were a regular occurrance.

Sherlock sat on the floor where he stood, cross legged and jumpy like a kid at Christmas. He flipped through the file with lightning speed, and was finished through the whole thing in minutes, going back over it slowly to catch any details. "Address?" he said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "On the front of the file... you idiot. Doesn't even bother to look at the cover..." he mumbled, walking over to Amy and ruffling her hair. "And how are you today little one?" She normally didn't like Lestrade, but recently she'd been opening up to him since he paid attention to her.

John smiled at Lestrade. At least he seemed to like the girl. Sometimes Sherlock didn't even acknowledge her existence. "Baby, what baby?" he'd say, and then John would point at Dolores and he would realize his mistake. It was really disheartening to know that his best friend forgot about John's own daughter.

Sherlock said nothing at all, and it was clear that he had no use for Lestrade anymore.

John really didn't want to see another battle of verbal insults between the two, so he decided to visit Mrs. Hudson and ask her about repairs on the wall where the bullet holes lined it. "Be right back," he muttered when he passed Holmes.

Sherlock nodded in understanding, glancing up at Lestrade and the girl for a moment. Was that the hint of a smile?

"You know, if I didn't know any better, Sherlock, I'd say you were Amy's father. You two look just alike," Lestrade said, glancing between her and Sherlock.

Sherlock grunted. "Well, I'm not. She's John's daughter..." he glanced up again, and noticed Amy staring at him. That was strange. He could definitely see what Lestrade meant by the resemblence, but really, that was impossible. "Maybe I'm somehow related to John, or the child's mother..." he mumbled in some sort of explanation.

Lestrade nodded in agreement. "Maybe... Do you know who the mother is?"

Sherlock shook his head, resting his head on his knuckles, staring down at the file. "No idea, and neither does John."

Lestrade looked down at Amy in pity. "Poor thing, not growing up with a mother, instead having to grow up with you," he jibed. He laughed, walking over and patting Sherlock on the back (to which Sherlock met with contempt). "Just messing with you, Holmes. See you at the crime scene." At that he walked out.

Sherlock stared at Dolores for a moment, and the little girl waved at him. He actually smiled at her, and for some reason, his breath caught in his throat.

His brow furrowed, and he shrugged it off, looking back to the file and jumping up just as John re-entered the flat. "Three dead and one missing! Oh, this is wonderful!" he exclaimed, closing the file.

"Oh really? I'm sure we'll just jump on that now, won't we?" John said in jest, chuckling and picking Amy up. "Come on, Amy, time to visit Mrs. Hudson. You'll be good for her while Daddy and Uncle Sherlock are out crime fighting, won't you?" he said when he was close to the door.

Sherlock put his coat and scarf on, scoffing. "Crime solving."

"Crime fighting," John rebuttled, waiting for Sherlock outside the door.

"Crime solving," Sherlock corrected him again with a glare. "And what's with this Uncle Sherlock? I'm not the child's uncle!"

"It's a nickname! What else is she going to call you?"

"Just Sherlock? That seems to work for a lot of people, John."

The door of the flat slammed shut, and the Sherlock Holmes was on the case.

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock's starting to realize what's going on! XDDD He won't REALLY get it until later, but for now he has a hint of it.<strong>

**Sorry for the discrepency between who's POV it was. John couldn't really be in the room when Lestrade mentioned that, now could he? Sherlock would have immediately noticed him tensing up.**

**As always my lovelies, read and review! ^^**


	7. 45

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 1,487 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** Okay, so I lied when I said there wouldn't be another update! XD I got some time in between packing to write another chapter. Gonna be quick before I loose internet connection and say that I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I don't know when another one will be out, but hopefully soon! ^^

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>John couldn't breathe.<p>

It wasn't that there was no oxygen in the room, there was plenty. By all accounts he should be able to catch his breath. Everything was perfectly normal.

Well, everything apart from the child's decapitated head.

"Sherlock…" he rasped, clutching at his throat where no air would enter, at his chest where his heart beat faster.

"Yes, John?" the detective said, not really looking at him, but bending over the three corpses with a grin (a grin! The bastard!) plastered over his face. He ignored John when he didn't reply, instead examining the father's eyelids and saying something to Lestrade that John didn't quite catch. He couldn't hear much of anything really, and he backed against the wall, the beginnings of a tremor racking his body.

Sherlock must have said something to annoy Lestrade, for the detective inspector stormed out, shaking his head and saying to John something like "how do you deal with him every day?" Or was it how does he deal with himself?

"Sh-sherlock…" he whispered, tears starting to well as he stared at the permanently screaming baby.

"YES John, what is it?" Holmes said in annoyance. "I'm rather busy at the moment. Unless you've anything of vital importance to add, I must concentrate."

"Sherlock."

The man finally looked up at the doctor, and a look of confusion spread across his face. "John, what's the matter?"

John gulped. He hadn't blinked since the moment they entered the room of the abandoned house. The walls were peeling, the cracks in the floor littered with bugs and mold. But nothing was as shocking as the three bodies, ritualistically beheaded with their legs straight out in front of them, and their hands over their hearts as if they were already in their coffins.

And the baby… The screaming, crying baby, not even a year old.

He still couldn't breathe, and slid down the wall, beginning to rock back and forth. He couldn't stop staring at the baby. "Sherlock," he rasped, barely audible. "I can't… I can't breathe!"

He felt Sherlock bound toward him, kneeling down in front of him to obstruct his view. "John, can you hear me?" he said calmly.

The hysterically silent doctor nodded numbly, his arms scrapping his sides as he held his stomach, ready to hurl. He watched Sherlock take off his glove and touch his cheek where a tear had fallen, wiping it away. "John, what's wrong?"

The man looked up into his eyes.

Eyes… They were… so beautiful… Like a dream.

"You really don't know…?" he shuddered. "You bastard," he sobbed.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "What? What do you mean? What did I do?"

John ground his teeth hard, looking away. "You didn't tell me… that one of the murders was a baby."

He knew Sherlock was immediately confused for the moment, as of course the thought hadn't occurred to him at all. Then realization must have hit him, for he made a sound of comfort. "John… I… I…"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're what?"

"I said I was sorry."

Sorry? That was completely unlike Sherlock. He never apologized and meant it. Every action he took was made with precise calculations, and he never regretted any of them. Now this?

"I didn't know, I mean, I didn't realize, I didn't think…"

"What? That I wouldn't picture my daughter's face the moment I walked into this room? No Sherlock, you'd never think about that."

A sudden embrace. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

He couldn't help but wrap his own arms around his friend. "John, I'm so sorry…" What had come over the man? He never felt empathy for the deceased, let alone the living. It was an anomaly.

He'd never been this close to Sherlock before. He buried his face in his hair, inhaling a strong scent of mint and tobacco. He knew Sherlock didn't smoke anymore, but he'd often walk into bars just to be around smokers, so his addiction wouldn't flare and he'd light up.

The smell was more than comforting, combined with the man's embrace and his soft words in his ear. John was still shaking, as he couldn't get the child's face out of his mind, couldn't help but imagine the agony of the screams as the sick bastard chopped her head off. "Did she die first, Sherlock? Did her parents have to watch their child suffer?" he whispered in his ear.

Sherlock didn't speak for a long moment. "Do you want the truth?"

"Yes."

After a pause, he leaned back, wiping another tear from John's cheek absently. John had never seen Sherlock so… alive? Of course he was alive all the time, but not in the truly living sense. He never felt human enough emotions to really live. And now many of them were playing across his face. How was that possible?

"They were all killed at the same time. They all died together. There were three murderers, maybe more."

John sighed in relief. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. He gulped, wiping his face in embarrassment and rubbing his temple. "I'm sorry, I'm making a fool of myself—"

"Don't be," Sherlock said. "I may not understand, but I know what you must be thinking, and I understand why it upsets… people like you, people with emotions like that."

"What emotions?"

Sherlock paused, looking down and licking his lips. "Love."

John didn't say anymore on the subject, as it was made clear that Holmes didn't wish it to discuss it further. "I'm usually so professional about these things…" he laughed dryly.

Sherlock nodded curtly. He squeezed John's arm in comfort and stood up, grasping John's hand and pulling him up. "Are you well enough to look over the bodies? You… You don't have to look at the child."

John nodded. "Yes, I'm fine… You don't have to shelter me, Sherlock, really."

"I'm worried about you," he said suddenly. He chose his next words carefully, as if he didn't really mean to say any of them. He was surprised at himself. "I'm just worried, that's all, about your sanity."

John bit his lip, moving away from the man and towards the father, who was the first body from the door. "They weren't killed here were they?" he said.

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, and John turned around to see the man unmoving, his eyes searching for some sort of explanation for his behavior. "No… No, they weren't."

"Well that's obvious, you dolt."

Anderson was standing in the doorway, and Sherlock immediately put on his customary sarcastic smirk. "Hello Anderson." He slammed the door. "Goodbye Anderson." He brushed off his hands with a triumphant grin

John chuckled, picking up the father's hand and turning it over in his gloved palm. There was etched a number 2 on his palm, clearly cut post-mortem.

"They must have been moved here long after they died, and arranged like this to make a statement. Their limbs show forced contortions, so it must have been many hours after the murder," Sherlock explained, taking his magnifying glass and examining the mother's hair follicles.

"Right, right, because the limbs become stiff quickly."

"Exactly. The woman's hair has droplets of wax coating it, perhaps they were killed at a candle making factory? Or rather, the more likely possibility is that they were killed as some sort of sacrifice, thus denoting their posture and aligned bodies."

"Since candles are usually used in rituals, it could have dripped on her, correct?"

"Correct."

"Sherlock, look at these markings on their hands," John said, moving the hands out so that the detective could see them. He stretched the man's hands first, then moved the child's in the middle (he caught his breath while doing so, but seemed fine), and then the mother's.

"They're numbers," Sherlock said, standing up and peering down at them. "2 and 7… or is it 27 on the male?"

"I think it's 27, because you see the child has a plus sign etched onto her chest, and then the other set of numbers on the woman's hand."

"Yes, 18, I see it. 27 plus 18 equals 45…"

John could almost see Sherlock's mind processing the number, scanning his subconscious for all the possibilities. "God, it's nearly impossible to narrow it down!"

"Sherlock."

"Not now John, I'm thinking!"

"Sherlock."

"What, John?"

"Could 45 mean a 45 caliber gun?"

"Yes, that's one of the possibilities. Why?"

John was staring at the mirror across the way, above the mantel.

"Because there's someone pointing one at me outside the window."

He was right on all accounts.


	8. Shards of Glass

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,522 words.

**Rating:** T for teen

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** Got my internet back! I'm officially sitting IN my new house! Its so pretty! My room is going to be Victorian looking, and I was thinking of painting a quote from Sherlock Holmes on my wall, either that or Phantom. Anything you guys can think of? XDDD Anyway, hope you guys love this chapter, I know I loved writing it! Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>"John! John are you alright? JOHN ANSWER ME!"<p>

He could feel Sherlock shaking him, trying to get him to calm down, but he wasn't really registering what was going on. The only thought crossing his mind was, "Is Amy okay? Have they gone to hurt her too?"

But then he saw Sherlock bending over him, glass covering his back and his face covered in blood. "John, say something! Do something! Anything!"

Was he dead? Was that his blood covering the detective's face? Or maybe he was imagining things, and the blood wasn't there at all.

He reached up to touch the man's face in a daze, and wiped a trail of the red liquid down in a streak. Sherlock flinched, and smacked his hand away.

It was only then that John realized it was Holmes' blood covering his own face.

There was a gash on his cheek, clearly where a bullet had grazed it and torn the skin. He expected there to be a scar, or worse, permanent damage to his muscles. He couldn't understand why Sherlock could bear talking at all, much less shout at him.

"John, just stay here, okay? Just stay here, I'm right here."

Why was Sherlock crying? It was clear that Sherlock had taken the bullet for him, but what about John? Why was he on the floor, Sherlock huddling over him? He could feel the sunlight seep through the window, it finally shining brighter after the dirty glass was destroyed. Was that Lestrade yelling outside? Was he trying to chase the gunman down? Or did he get away? Damn him if he got away.

"John, I'm going to keep pressure on this, just say something if it's too much for you to handle!" Sherlock kept shouting. What pressure? What was wrong with him?

He kept blinking, trying to focus, but everything was sepia toned, like when he placed that filter over the dead, so he could distance himself. But he wasn't looking at the bodies in the room. He was looking at Sherlock.

"Sh-Sherlock..." he rasped. "Wh-what's wr-wrong?"

Sherlock looked at him incredulously, through the tears and blood of course. He looked away from his face to the doctor's shoulder, where his hand was currently pressed against it.

John turned his head to the side, and his focus landed on a piece of glass lying on the floor. It was shaped irregularly, almost like a heart. It was even stained red, as if it was cut for a valentine.

Then he realized it wasn't a cutout heart at all. It was a shard of glass from the window, dripping in his blood.

He began to hyperventilate, but he felt Sherlock's gloved hand press against his mouth, the man leaning down to whisper in his ear. "John, shhh... Everything's going to be alright, you're alright."

Why was Sherlock being so thoughtful and caring? If it had been Anderson or Donovan in his place, the man wouldn't have even blinked. Why did he comfort him like this? Why was John Watson so special?

He glanced down at his wounded shoulder, and saw Sherlock's bare hand pressed against the skin, keeping pressure on the gash so that he wouldn't bleed out. The cut must have not been that deep, but he could barely feel his entire arm. Maybe it was just numb from the shock, and he calculated in his head that he most definitely wouldn't lose the use of his arm permanently.

The sight of it however was terrifying. "Sh-Sherlock, why were they trying to kill me?"

Sherlock shook his head against his shoulder, and the man's hair ruffled against John's nose. His vision became blurry, and he smelled mint and tobacco in full blast, like the two natural elements were wafted in his face. He remembered smelling it once before. That was just a few minutes ago, wasn't it? Or had he smelt in another time, in a dream...?

"I... I'm positive it was Moriarty," Sherlock, said pulling back and looking at him. "Not the shooter, the man behind it. Because just after the man pulled the trigger," he pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, "I found this, after the shooter dropped it."

It was the letter M, sprawled on the crumpled parchment like it dripped there. The ink was not ink at all, but dried blood. "I didn't know you were hurt until you started screaming and blacked out... I thought I saved you!" He looked back to the wound, pressing softly. "I'm so sorry John."

That was the second time that day he'd said that. What was wrong with the man, was he ill?

"Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?" he said, laughing a little, trying to keep himself alert.

Sherlock didn't take it as a joke. His brow furrowed, and he slunk back slightly in contemplation. John could almost see his eyes glaze over in that calculated, nearly emotionless state of being. This was the Sherlock he knew, who only had three modes: excited, condescending, and bored.

"I don't have friends."

He moved to the other side of John, trying to keep out of sight no doubt, and just pressed on the wound, completely silent.

"That's what you think," John said in some sort of consolation, "because everyone you've ever known told you it was the truth."

Sherlock was still silent. John looked over to him, and reached the hand on his other side over, touching Sherlock's bloody hand pressed on his shoulder. "Well I'm telling you its not, because I am your friend, Sherlock. You're not alone."

The detective swallowed, changing the subject. He looked up at the door and said, "Dammit, what's taking them so long?"

"Is someone coming to get us?"

"Yes, Donovan called an ambulance. I think I hear them in the distance."

John scoffed. "I don't need an ambulance. I can patch this up myself! In fact, help me up," he said while trying to form a sitting position.

"John, don't!"

He didn't pay any attention to Sherlock, and forced himself into a sitting position. However, his arm caught fire with pain. He clutched it with gritted teeth, and he could almost feel Sherlock rolling his eyes next to him. "I told you not to," he said.

"I-It's fine, Sherlock, really!" He even went so far as to get to his feet, though he immediately felt lightheaded from the blood loss and had to lean against the wall for support. He put pressure on the wound when Sherlock's hand fell away. "Thank you for worrying about me."

Sherlock steeled his gaze on the broken window across the room as he leaned against the wall next to John. "I wasn't worrying... I was being practical."

John rolled his eyes, nodding in feign agreement. "Right, right." And I'm a drag queen, he added in his thoughts.

"The ambulance should be here momentarily," Sherlock added.

"Is your cheek alright?" John said. "It'll leave a nasty scar."

"Its fine," the man said curtly. "Just a scrape."

John turned his head, and his gaze landed on the wall where the bullet was lodged. Damn bullet. If it weren't for it then Sherlock wouldn't be hurt. "Are we still going to work on this case or figure out why Moriarty wants me dead?"

"Oh, I know exactly why he wants you dead." He ended the sentence as if he ended the subject.

After a few moments of waiting for an addition to his statement, John said, "And why is that, exactly?"

Sherlock was silent, his arm crossed and his face blank of any emotion.

John licked his lips and nodded. "Okay," he said, turning his head toward the dead bodies. "So the case then."

"Yes. I suggest we speak with any relatives, see who might want this family dead."

"That's a good idea, but Sherlock?"

"A theory could be that they were hiding a secret about the murderers, some sort of religious conspiracy, thus the ritualistic murder. Of course there is the possibility that it was staged to look like a sacrifice, and it is the more likely option of the two. If it had been a true sacrifice they probably would have been killed where they arranged them. They could be taunting the police if the murderer has struck before, though I certainly know there hasn't been a murder similar to this in London, at least not in recent years."

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"The baby is missing."

Sherlock was silent for a good long moment. "What?"

"I said the baby is missing."

"I heard you, John. I use 'what?' in denoting my complete shock, not questioning your statement. Really, you should have been able to discern that from my lengthened silence and my-"

"Sherlock, shut up."

* * *

><p>John did patch himself up. The cut wasn't serious, he had just lost a lot of blood. He and Sherlock were sitting on their couch in their flat, as Holmes had refused to be treated by the ambulance staff.<p>

"Ow!" he exclaimed, batting John's hand away.

"Sherlock, it's going to get infected, if it already hasn't! Hold still." John dabbed at the gash on the man's face with gauze. The doctor's other arm was in a sling, his clothes changed and his face wiped clean of blood. Sherlock grumbled, trying to sit still, but rather grumpy about it all anyway.

"Thank you," John said suddenly.

Of course Sherlock was confused. "For what?"

John smiled, setting the gauze down and picking up the proper tools to patch his face. "For saving my life."

Sherlock averted his eyes, rubbing his hands in his lap. "You're... welcome."

He looked as if he'd done something wrong and was trying to avoid telling his mother about it. John gave out a very soft laugh and ruffled his hair slightly. "You know sometimes you're completely adorable."

Sherlock glared, flattening down his hair and huffing. "And sometimes you're positively bonkers."

John giggled, with Sherlock following suit. It was odd, the two of them giggling together, but it didn't seem wrong in the slightest. John quite loved it when Sherlock laughed like that, especially when they were laughing together.

Suddenly, they both stopped. They couldn't move, they couldn't speak. They were staring into each other's eyes. John's hand was still raised to Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock's hand was resting on John's knee. Thus the reason for their frozen state. John couldn't breathe, simply because his heart was pounding too loudly to allow air through.

"Sherlock...?" he finally managed.

The man didn't move. He looked like he was shaking, and completely frightened. That was knew. John had never seen Sherlock frightened like this before (of course there was earlier, but that had been fear for John's safety, not what he thought). It was almost endearing, if not completely out of place in the man.

"Y-yes...?" He said suddenly.

"I..." he couldn't even think properly. He couldn't control what he was doing, and before he knew it, his face was leaning very, _very_ slowly closer to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he tightened his grip on John's knee. He was completely scared.

But that didn't stop him from beginning to lean in himself.

"I'm not making your tea again, boys! I'm not your housekeeper!"

Sherlock immediately moved away to the other end of the couch, John doing the same on the opposite end. Both men cleared their throats, nodding to the woman shuffling toward them with a tray of tea and biscuits. "Your scrape looks much better, Sherlock! And how is your arm, John?"

"Fine, fine thanks."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him incredudously for his curtness, then set the tray down on the table. "Enjoy now, dearies. Yell down if you need me!" She smiled kindly at them both.

"Is Amy still asleep, Mrs. Hudson?" John asked as he fiddled absently with the patch he was supposed to place on Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, she's upstairs now. Should be awake soon, I believe!" She nodded happily and trudged back down the stairs.

As soon as she was gone, John panicked. "Sherlock, that wasn't, I mean... I just... It was-"

"The moment, yes I know. Men with your emotional capacities tend to do that. Its fine."

John looked at him for a long moment, then realizing he meant what he said, he let out the breath he'd been holding for the past view minutes, taking his cup of tea and sipping it nervously.

"Finish, please."

"Sorry, what?"

"Finish attending to my scrape." The detective pointed to it, his eyes focused on the muted tele.

John paused, and then sighed lightly, brows furrowed with a confused smile. He took the patch and began applying it, trying not to look at Sherlock's eyes. After a few moments of awkward silence, he said, "Have you figured out anything on the case yet?"

"No."

That was the end of that conversation.

After another few moments of awkward silence, John finished. He smiled in his usual doctor's way, always trying to show his patients everything was going to be alright. "All done."

Sherlock just sat there, staring at the tele. John furrowed his brow, not even bothering to figure out what Sherlock must have been thinking. He packed up his tools and disposed of the bloodied gauzes.

"I'm going to go check on Amy, alright?"

Sherlock merely nodded.

John stood dejected, but climbed the stairs anyway, leaving Sherlock alone.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat on the couch. He was alone and silent, but his thoughts were alive, teeming with information and confusion. Half of his brain was still working to solve his current case, while the other half was lost in silent contemplation.<p>

He wasn't really seeing the tele, just settling his eyes there so he could just stare at something other than John. He didn't even look at John after Mrs. Hudson entered. He couldn't.

There was one thing echoing in his mind, above all other things. Not the case, not the tea sitting cold on the table, not Mrs. Hudson, not even anything about himself.

He finally unfroze from his numbed position and reached into his pocket, removing a crumpled piece of paper with the letter M in red written onto it. He stared at it in his hands, his heart pounding as he rubbed the dried blood, shaking madly.

He turned the paper over, rubbing his mouth when he saw the words he'd nearly read a hundred times. He just had to read it once more, to be sure it was there, to be sure it was real. It was vague, could have been talking about anyone.

But he knew how Moriarty worked now. This message was meant solely for him, and it was meant for him to know exactly who it was about. He wished he didn't, wished he'd deduced more about him, that way he couldn't be this way, he couldn't possibly do this to Sherlock.

But he had. M was never wrong, much like he. The words were true.

They were like shards of glass, cutting into the heart he didn't think he had.

_He's lying to you._

* * *

><p><strong>O.o What is John keeping from Sherlock? How does M know about John's secrets? Why does Mrs. Hudson have to be such a cockblock?<strong>

**All these questions and more will be answered next time in "Written in the Stars!"**

**XDDD Anyway guys, read and review!**


	9. Daddy's Not Queer

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,317 words.

**Rating:** T for teen

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, Sarah, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** I got this chapter done LAST night, but I had no internet at my grandma's house! Now I do, so I'm posting it. I'm clearing up a little discrepency here in timeline to the original show, as one reviewer pointed out. It may not have made sense to you, but you might understand it by the end of the chapter. I'll explain in the end author's note. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>He wasn't gay.<p>

"I'm not gay. I'm really not," John said to his daughter, though he knew she didn't understand. Or care. "Just because I did it with a guy when I had you DOESN'T mean I'm gay. I love women! I love... their breasts? Their bodies? Their female...ness?" He sighed, and whispered, "Daddy's not queer."

He was busy cleaning his room, but really all he was doing was flinging clothes this way and that to prove his point to his daughter, who listened intently, not in understanding of course (toddlers couldn't understand the kinds of words he was using), but out of childish curiosity. Her head poked above her crib, her little mouth sucking on her pacifier.

"Uncle Sherlock is my best friend! You don't... You just... You don't have feelings for your best friend!" Or did you? He'd seen it enough in movies. Oh, but this was real life! John wasn't naive enough to believe in silly little fascinations.

His arm was still in a sling, but he felt that he would be able to take it off in a few days. The case was going well, and he and Sherlock were due to visit the sister of the deceased mother tomorrow, and gain any information at all possible regarding her family's death and her nephew's disappearance (he was the one missing from the trio of the dead).

Despite the progress in the case, Sherlock hadn't spoken to him much in the past few days since the "incident," as John liked to call it. Both in relation to his shoulder wound and Sherlock's facial scrape, and the thing that almost happened between them. It didn't help that he couldn't get it out of his head.

"It didn't even happen, you know. Thank God for Mrs. Hudson, the saint!" he exclaimed, flinging one of Dolores' dresses into the laundry bin in the corner of his room. He wasn't worried about Sherlock overhearing him, or Mrs. Hudson. The latter couldn't hear a pin drop right next to her, and the former was out investigating, something he'd neglected conveniently to let John in on these past few days. It was a miracle he was going to see the victim's sister tomorrow at all.

"God, I hope this doesn't ruin our friendship..." He plopped down on the bed in defeat, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe I should just talk to him. Tell him we were both in shock from what happened that day? I've seen it enough times in patients. Maybe I had Florence Nightingale syndrome from tending to Sherlock's wound?" Or maybe he still had it.

John wasn't denying that the "incident" wasn't having a lasting impression on him. However, he abhorred the thought all together. "I-I'm not attracted to him in the slightest." Lies. Sherlock was gorgeous, and he knew it, even if he _wasn't_ gay. But saying that he wasn't out loud gave him some sort of false comfort, at least.

He deduced (wouldn't Sherlock be proud) that he had been in a state of shock since the moment he had entered that crime scene, and since Sherlock had been there to comfort him- more than a bit of a surprise- his emotions were reacting in overdrive. "He was there, and I... I took advantage of him..." he admitted, not really wanting to, but realizing it was the truth. "He's just a good friend, and nothing more. I trust him."

There's that word, trust again. It kept popping up into his mind, like some red warning flag that he should avoid. Avoid trusting Sherlock? Well, that should have been a given, from all the advice he's gotten from the people who knew him. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, hell, even Mycroft had all warned him what Sherlock was like. Holmes even admitted himself to being a sociopath. How could he give his trust to a man like that?

But he did. John trusted Sherlock with his life. The man had taken a bullet for him, for Christ sakes (even if he managed to get away with just a scar on the face). John had saved his life more than once.

And who said Sherlock had only saved John's life just the one time? Because John knew, without a doubt, that besides Amy, Sherlock was the best thing that John had ever had. Not because he was in love with him, no of course not. But because he gave him a sense of purpose, a new meaning to his life. The thrill of the chase and the solving of crimes gave him the boost that he needed to continue living. Not in the actual living sense, Dolores provided that motivation. But the drive to live life to its fullest. John had never seen a more energetic and passionate man than he had in Sherlock, and the doctor was sure he'd leaked some of it over to him.

"I can't talk to him... What if something happens, and we're in that situation again? Wait, no, strike that, if I'm not in love with him, then it can't happen again," he said. He leaned up on his elbow, looking his daughter in the eyes. "Can it?"

The little girl looked at him dazed and confused, and she fell back into her crib, and her pacifier popping out of her mouth. She tried groping for it, but was more than a little clumsy at it, and she began to cry. John smiled and got up, walking toward the crib. He rubbed the pacifier on his shirt and placed it back in her mouth, picking the little girl up and setting her snuggly on his hip. "You're a mess, you know that?" he said, giving her a soft kiss on her forehead. She leaned her head against his shoulder and clawed at his shirt, giggling slightly.

"I'm not in love with him..." he muttered, laying his own head against hers and swaying back and forth. "I can't love, at least not now. Love just doesn't happen for me, not since-" he stopped himself, looking down at Dolores' dark curls. "Maybe if I saw him, I'd recognize him... And then I'd remember." He was of course talking about the girl's father. He felt like he recognized her smile in someone else's, but his memories were too hazy with the drink that he couldn't remember who it was. He was sure he probably passed the man on the street all the time.

Did he remember John? Did he know he had a daughter, just waiting in John's arms? Did he know how much their one night together had affected him?

He started having the dreams again, and the flashes of laughter. Apart from Sherlock, the mystery man was all he thought about. He wanted to know who he was, what he was like, what he did for a living. He at least wanted to know his name.

He'd often thought about doing a test on Amy's blood, to try to find a match for a father. At first he truly hadn't wanted to know, since the man probably didn't want someone showing up at his door, carrying a child that he would soon find out was his. Especially not a _man_ carrying the child. A man who was the child's mother.

That was completely ridiculous. And yet, his drive to find out who the man was had only grown with each dream.

"I'm sure your father is a great man, Amy," he said to her. He tried fighting it, but after a few moments, he gave up.

"Want to go find out who he is?"

* * *

><p>"Thank you for helping me with this, Sarah, you're a lifesaver."<p>

The woman smiled sweetly at him and the little girl in his arms. "It's no problem, John. And thank you for trusting me with all this! I know this must be hard for you," she said, shutting the door behind her.

John laughed softly. "I figured you'd think I was crazy."

She shook her head. "I've heard of something like this before, a few years ago. Kept it real quiet, they did, but the doctor's talk about it sometimes." She took the sleeping child when John held her out to her. "How old is she?"

"A year and a half," John replied. He tried not to recall the pain he endured when she was born, but the memories must have been evident on his face, for Sarah dropped the subject.

"Shall we get started then? You said you wanted to do it..."

John nodded. "Yes, that's right... I'm just not sure if I trust anyone but myself to prick my daughter's finger. I am a doctor, after all."

Sarah nodded. "I understand," she said, walking over to the examining table and sitting on it, Dolores asleep in her lap.

When he took the blood, the girl had screamed, just like he knew she would. But he kissed her forehead and whispered to her sweetly, telling her it was going to be alright. The moment it was over, she jumped into his arms, not wanting to be with the strange woman any longer.

He handed off the vial of blood to Sarah, and she quickly filed it discretely.

"The results should be in a few days' time. Technology, these days. A paternal test doesn't take nearly as long as it did ten years ago!" she laughed.

John merely smiled vacantly, rubbing his crying child's back in concern. "I'm sorry, sweetheart... Shhh, Amy, shhh..."

Sarah smiled sadly, cautiously setting her head on the girl's head. "Why do you call her Amy, instead of Dolores?"

He glanced at Sarah, shrugging as much as he could without disturbing said Amy. "My flatmate said it reminded him of Lolita, you know, the promiscuous little girl? I didn't realize that when I named her... I still really like the name, but Amy is quicker to say anyway." There was that, and the fact that Sherlock still called her Dolores when he clearly displayed his dislike for the name. He just did it to annoy John.

Sarah laughed. "I didn't think about that either. What sort of things does your flatmate read, anyway?" She giggled incessantly, and John rather liked the way she touched her fingers to her smiling mouth when she laughed.

He laughed with her. "I don't know! I rather like to think he's read everything, though he really remembers nothing. You know he doesn't know anything about our solar system? Nothing at all!"

She was full on cackling by then, quietly though, so as not to disturb Amy as she calmed down. John chuckled with her.

She leaned against him, wiping a few tears from her eyes. "Your flatmate sounds very interesting, Dr. Watson. I'd like to meet him sometime."

He smiled at her. "I doubt he'd like to meet you. He doesn't like to meet anyone. Socializing isn't his thing, you see." He shrugged, leaning against the examining table, thankful that Dolores had stopped crying and was sitting up in his embrace, attentive and adorable.

Sarah sighed, leaning against the table with him. "That seems to be something I have in common with him..." She crossed her arms, looking to the floor with remorse.

"What's wrong? Something happen?"

She nodded. "My boyfriend broke up with me last week. Said I was too out there. Too out there! Me! I'm the most normal person around here!" she ranted.

John shrugged, smiling a little on the inside. "You seem pretty normal to me, though if he's right, being normal is pretty overrated anyway," he said to comfort her.

She looked up at him. "Really? You mean that?"

He nodded. "Most definitely."

Sarah grinned back, and John detected the faintest hint of a blush covering her cheeks. It was rather sweet, and John saw an opportunity in it that he just couldn't pass up. Because he was beginning to like Sarah.

John didn't have time to comment on it however, for his phone beeped with a text message. He pulled his phone out, and his face perked up, though his heart began pounding. That wasn't normal. "O-Oh, it's from Sherlock. My flatmate I mean..." He opened the message.

_New message: 2:17 PM_

_We need milk. Now. I'm doing an experiment with it. _

_-SH_

Another one right after.

_New message: 2:18 PM_

_P.S. Don't worry, kitchen is safe. _

_-SH_

John scoffed. At least he had the decency to reassure him there was no damage to their house. He shut off the phone and slipped it into his pocket. "Sorry, gotta run," he said, moving toward the door. "Thanks again for all this, you've been a great help."

Sarah almost skipped to the door, opening it for the man (whose hands were full with holding a child and, well, being in a sling). "It was my pleasure, Dr. Watson."

"Just John, please, Sarah," he said, smiling. Stepping out, he added with apprehension, "Say... You, wouldn't happen to want to get together sometime?" Maybe that was too forward. He hadn't had very good experiences with dating lately.

"Sure!" she said eagerly, a shock to John. Either she was very desperate, or really liked John. The man thought it was the latter.

"O-Oh, okay," he laughed nervously. "Well, um... I'll call you then, yeah?"

"Yeah."

She led him to the lobby, smiling awkwardly, but with excitement at him when he was ready to leave.

"I'll come back into work once this arm has healed, shouldn't be but another few days, at most."

Sarah nodded to him. "That's fine, John. Take all the time you need." She looked around, making sure the other staff members weren't paying attention. "The results should be in soon!" she said quietly.

John smiled, and stepped out of the clinic in triumph. He shifted Amy in his arm, and sighed happily. "See, Amy? Daddy told you he wasn't queer."

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, so the discrepency was that if John already started working at the clinic then he would have already met and dated Sarah, like in the Blind Banker. But I decided to smudge things a bit (things don't really happen the same way anyway since John has Amy), and say that when they met Sarah had a boyfriend. Now that she doesn't JOHN CAN STRIKE! MWAHAHAHAHA! But that also means that the Blind Banker would have already happened, just without Sarah (perhaps another girl he dated? He did say he hadn't had much with dating), and Sherlock and John must have had more cases that involved M anyway. Its all going to come to a head eventually, though they aren't going to meet M like they did in the Great Game. This is where it veers off from the show's timeline.<strong>

**Hope I cleared that up guys, if you were confused! ^^**


	10. Damaged

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,531 words.

**Rating:** T for tean.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** For this chapter, suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin'. For the rest onward, expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **I AM SOOOO SORRY! Like, seriously. I know I've already apologized in that author's note, but you should know I really am truly sorry for the wait. I'm almost glad I did, or else this wouldn't be as good as it is now. So, yeah... Here's the next chapter! ENJOY MY LOVELY REVIEWERS! I should also say that my friend Jill/Izzi (the girl who's writing the Jack the Ripper/Sherlock fic with me), helped me on this chapter with any writer's block I had. THANK YOU JILLY! This chapter is dedicated to her.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>A soft, yet inexplicably somber melody floated through the courtyard, surrounding the pair in its dire mood. The french doors were wide open, the curtains flowing in the breeze as they came upon a woman in the middle of her life, her careful and precise fingers gliding over the keys of the grand piano.<p>

John was surprised at the sight, it seemingly coming straight from a simple elegance of it all was dreadfully peculiar, and had it not been for the woman's haggard and frayed appearance, he would have suspected this was a trick, some sort of candid camera movie.

It didn't phase Sherlock, however, though these things never do. He strolled inside casually, not even waiting for John to follow.

He still seemed to be distant from his companion, though John really couldn't blame him. The "incident" _had _mostly been his fault, placing his hand on John's knee... Though John couldn't really say what had come over either of them, other than the heat of the moment. He certainly knew Sherlock had no feelings for him other than perhaps trust and brotherly love.

Or did he? Oh, no no no. He did not. He couldn't. As he'd mused before, Sherlock's stated himself that he was a sociopath, unable to feel for another human being. He's displayed it countless times on cases with his insensitivity, John always the one having to pick up the pieces.

He assumed this was the only reason Sherlock brought him along today.

"Hello, Miss Parker!" Sherlock said in his usual deceptively cheery fashion. John hobbled in, his limp flaring up from the stress and worry Sherlock had been placing on him. The woman was shocked at anyone coming to join her, and she stopped playing immediately, standing up and fiddling with her fingers.

"Who are you?" she asked, looking straight at Sherlock.

Sherlock was busy examining her, no doubt looking to see if she was the culprit. John rolled his eyes, and held out his hand to shake. "My name is Dr. John Watson, and my friend here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We're currently investigating the deaths of your sister and her family, and we'd just like to ask you a few questions, ma'am."

Her eyes flickered in remorse, as she sat back down on the piano, and began to play again. Sherlock mumbled something about John always being so personable, and flashed a quick grin at the doctor, confirming John's suspicions of his reason in being there. The detective strolled about the room, not much there apart from the piano (well polished he might add) a settee, a rug, and a fireplace, pictures and knick-knacks littering the mantle.

John set himself down begrudgingly on the settee, situating his cane next to him and turning toward the pianist. "We're both very sorry about your loss, Miss Parker," he said (he could just feel Sherlock snorting internally over by the mantle), "so we'd like to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. Did your sister or her husband have any enemies at all?"

She shook her head sadly, and John could tell tears were starting to well. John sighed.

Sherlock just scoffed, "Oh come now, everyone has enemies!" he said, striding over to the settee and moving John over, so that he could be closer to the woman in interrogation.

"I-I don't have any enemies," John said quietly, but with a grumble. Sherlock glared at him, then rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the pianist.

"Even you have enemies, don't you? Perhaps your landlord, who's been pestering you to move out, as you make too much noise and too little money playing the piano. In fact you make hardly any money at all, judging from the state of your appearance and your rooms. You are too much of a hermit and a spinster to bother socializing outside this place, so you keep here with your memories of your sister and her family, envying her in every aspect of her life. Perhaps your sister was your enemy too? Perhaps _you_ killed her, in cold blooded jealousy?"

John didn't even bother to stand and correct him, hanging his head in his hands in embarrassment.

To his surprise, the woman stopped playing, and turned to the detective and John, smiling softly with eyes of sorrow. "That's very clever, Mr. Holmes, but you must also know that I loved my sister very much. I would never hurt her, or her family. I loved them all."

"Then why have they not helped you to overcome your intense agoraphobia, as I can clearly see you have from your gravitation away from the doors. You have not left the far end of the bench since we arrived."

Sherlock grinned in triumph (though it was gone almost instantly), getting up and strolling back over to the mantelpiece, mumbling something about something not being quite right.

John scooted closer to the woman in comfort. "Just ignore him, he's always like that."

The woman coughed lightly, nodding with furrowed brow. "I can tell," she said quietly, hurt obviously displayed in her eyes. "I like to keep the doors open... I like the breeze," she said in a soft voice.

John nodded in understanding. He glanced at the keys resting under the woman's hand. "Don't stop playing on our accounts, Miss Parker."

She pursed her lips. "Please, call me Jillian." She began to play again.

Sherlock was busy studying the photos on the mantle, while John continued to question the woman. He would pipe up every once in a while with an off the wall question, no doubt trying to sort out her real story in his mind. John tried more to pull out of her information on anyone she might think could be the kidnapper and killer.

"Your sister, she was the younger, right?" John asked about 20 minutes into the questioning.

Jillian nodded, still lightly playing the piano. "Yes, Erika was 37. I'm 45."

Suddenly, Sherlock strolled around the room and ended up leaning his elbow casually on the side of the piano, giving a large interrogating grin to the woman with his chin in his hands. "Just one or two little questions, that's all. Miss Parker, what is your relation to your deceased sibling's husband?"

Another off the wall question, and Watson even had to admit in his expression that he was confused. He wasn't the only one. The spinster looked at Holmes incredulously.

"H-he was my brother-in-law...?" she said, like she couldn't believe he'd ask that kind of question.

Honestly, John couldn't believe it much either. "What... does that have anything to do with the case?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, chin still resting in his hand. "Really John, you should know by now I always have a point. Quit being so oblivious, its annoying," he said in his typical _annoyed_ drone.

He turned back to the woman, still smiling. "Please answer the question in far more detail than you just did before, and we'll all get along swimmingly. Thanks."

The woman stared at him for a moment, swallowing under the sheer pressure of Sherlock's gaze. She took a moment to compose herself out of frustration, and said, "I met him 19 years ago, long before he'd met my sister."

Sherlock grinned. "And we all know how that goes..."

She glared at him, playing a sarcastic and bright tune on the piano. "We dated, I won't deny it. But what does that have to do with my sister's murder?"

The detective glanced up at Watson, in a sort of "watch this" look. "Absolutely everything."

It was then that it hit John: a crime of passion.

"Sherlock, where are you going with thi-"

Holmes silenced him with a glare. He returned his attention to the pianist, completely absorbed in catching his killer. "We both know there's more to it than that, Miss Parker," he added, getting up and strolling about the room again. "I suppose you're not concerned at all as to the whereabouts of your_ nephew _are you? Or are you just _closing_ in all that turmoil?" The man lightly picked up one of the picture frames on the mantle, holding out a bit for Watson to see. "How old would he be now? 17? _18_?"

Now it was making sense for Watson. A few months ago he would have been still confused as ever, but living with Sherlock for this long had forced his senses to become keener than they were.

"_18_," the woman retorted, glaring. "Yes, 18. Again, what does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock smirked, setting the frame down calmly on the mantle. "Here are the facts, Miss Parker. I present them to you as I perceive them to be, and I'm never wrong."

The man rubbed his hands together, beginning his bombardment of observations that would surely lead to the woman's arrest. John sighed as he began, not looking forward to the consequences that would follow in his wake.

"19 years ago, you met your sister's future husband and fell in love. He scorned you once he met your much prettier and more practical sister, Erika, and married her. Little did he know that you were pregnant at the time." He walked over to the piano, slamming his hands down on it. "And you left the child with him! How inconsiderate of you! Honestly, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were good friends with the mother of John's daughter!"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, glaring. "That's none of her business."

Sherlock brushed him off. "John, I'm trying to prove a point, don't bother me." He waved his hand, suggesting himself to continue. "You wanted a career as a concert pianist, so you dropped the child off on your sister and her new husband's doorstep, only telling the father later that it was his. After you realized you would never become famous as a musician, you sought to reconcile with the man you once loved, but it was too late. They'd 'adopted' your son, and they would have nothing to do with you. Your sister sent you pictures of her growing family, and I couldn't help but notice the considerable amount of photographs of your 'nephew.' A little tad obsessed, aren't we, _Mother_?"

John stood in anger. "Sherlock, that's enough! You're making the woman miserable!" Though she deserved it, the murderer. How... He couldn't comprehend how she could go so far as to have a _child_ killed, much less her niece.

Watson was right though. The woman was sobbing into the keys, drowning her sorrows in her wasted talent.

"You wanted to punish your sister and your old lover for taking your son away from you! And you did it the only way you could think of. Kill them all. All that mattered was your son, not your sister, not her husband, not even your own young niece! Oh, but you'd never get your hands dirty yourself, no. You're far too thin and sickly to be fed well, but you do make money, which is why you haven't been kicked out yet. You've been saving money to hire hit-men! Isn't that right Miss Parker?"

"Sherlock, that's enough, you've made your point," John pleaded with him. The woman wasn't even coherent any more, and John tried to console her by touching Sherlock's arm, begging him to stop with his eyes.

The detective wasn't having any of that. "Don't touch me." His glare was like death toward John, clearly angered at constantly being interrupted.

John glared back, but with an insane amount of hurt on his face.

A slam of hands on the piano suddenly, and Sherlock was in the woman's face, nearly breathing down her neck. "You hired someone to take care of your son until your perfect crime, one you didn't even commit, was solved, and the young man could find a family in you. You, the only one left in your family. Oh yes, I read the case file. You have no one. Both your sister and your husband were nearly the last in the line, after your mother murdered your father and then herself in cold blood. Guess it runs in the family, doesn't it?"

"Sherlock!"

"So all you had to do was wait until the bumbling police 'solved' the case, and then your boy would be returned to you. That was your plan, wasn't it? Well, I must congratulate you. You might have gotten away with it, if it had gone according to plan. But you see, there's one thing you didn't count on. There's one thing no killer ever counts on." He stared her directly in the eyes. "Me."

The woman shuddered with hatred. "You wouldn't know... You wouldn't understand!"

Sherlock smiled with sarcasm. "Oh, I understand perfectly. You killed them. That's all I need to know."

Her eyes narrowed. "He promised no one would figure it out."

Holmes' eyes widened. "Who? Who promised that? What did he tell you? Where is he? Did he tell you his name?" He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her violently. "Answer me!"

"Stop it Sherlock, stop it!" John tried to stop him, but he wouldn't relent.

"Who is he? Don't look at me like that! You have nothing left! Everything is over! You have nothing to lose!" She wouldn't tell him, only looking scared of the man with the cold-blooded eyes. "TELL ME!"

"HOLMES!"

"SHUT _UP_, WATSON!" The detective growled loudly, and shoved the pawing man to the ground.

John didn't cry out in pain. He didn't shed a single tear. He was just there, sprawled out on the ground, staring directly into the suddenly regretful detective's eyes. He was nothing short of damaged. He shuddered, never breaking eye contact, but shook his head in disbelief.

Sherlock's eyes searched for words that would never come, his accursed hand that had hurt his friend nearly reaching out to help him, to comfort him, to tell him he was sorry.

But John wouldn't have that. He scrambled away, fumbling for his cane and racing out the door.

Sherlock couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. Not just from the shock of having betrayed his best friend, but from the rush of emotions hitting his heart like lightning, emotions that he'd suffocated until they were unrecognizable. Now they were here, alive, and devastating.

This would not do. He couldn't have this any longer. Not when he was lying to him. The lying had to stop. The crying had to stop. The emotions had to stop.

The love had to stop.

Suddenly, a small, pathetic voice reached up to him in desperation, trying to reconcile its pitiful situation. The woman was absolutely lucky Lestrade had just pulled up outside her home, or else Sherlock would have neatly wrung her throat with his bare hands.

"Moriarty."

* * *

><p><strong>... I think we all know there are no words for this.<strong>

**Read and review guys. And don't forget, I posted a new fic, the really unique one! Alert and fave it, and review it too! Its called the Case of the Forgotten Doctor.**

**See you next chapter!**


	11. Verbal Beatings

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 1,992 words.

**Rating:** T for tean.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** For this chapter, suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin'. For the rest onward, expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

FOR THIS CHAPTER EXPECT LOTS OF CURSING! The rating is not going to go up, because I think you can handle it for one chapter, if not, just tell me and I'll bump up the rating for the fic, but I'd rather not.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **So yeah... This is THE chapter. That is all.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>What was he thinking, honestly, moving in with a sociopath?<p>

He was absolutely bonkers, off his rocker, deranged, mad, loopy, whatever you want to call it. Anything but sane.

That was just it. Sane did not litter his vocabulary anymore with its boring and mundane-ness. Now he saw everything in vivid technicolor, like a dizzy hallucination, and it was all thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

Now he was running from the man who had given him a reason to live.

He had wanted him to understand, wanted him to change, wanted him to _feel_ like John felt, to see people as people, and not as subjects or victims. The world was black and white to Sherlock, and he was missing out on the gray areas of life just by being a sociopath.

Pity him, he did. He felt sorry for him.

Not anymore.

His blood pumped through his veins as he sped toward 221B Baker Street, anxious to dash to his room and lock his door, curling up in a ball on the bed and holding his daughter, crying out the pain he was holding in. John never cried, and when he did, it had to be for good reason. Would this be considered a good reason? When you've just realized how heartless your best friend is?

He should have come to expect it by now, but no matter how many times he put himself through this, he always wound up hurt by Sherlock's cold words. They echoed in his ear, screaming loudly with the force of a thousand hells, deafening his eardrums and spitting on his soul.

"_SHUT _UP_, WATSON!"_

Like a hurricane, the wind began to whip at his body bounding for the finish line.

It was unfortunate that the moment he leaped, however, that he ran literally into the one person he didn't wish to see at that very moment.

"Really, John, a taxi would have done nicely."

He stumbled back, barely getting his grip on the door frame of the flat before he broke down laughing hysterically, but with tired sadness. "You're such an asshole..."

He pushed his way by the detective, fumbling with his coat and cane, barely containing his tears, but he wouldn't cry, not in front of Holmes.

The other man just stood there without saying a word, his coat still covering him and his scarf still warming his neck. His eyes were hard and contemplative, but not at all angry, sad, or apologetic. Typical.

John walked determinedly into the kitchen, blindly making himself a cup of tea, but grew frustrated when he couldn't find a clean, _safe_ cup to drink out of in the entire kitchen. "Dammit, Sherlock! When the hell are you ever going to move your fucking experiments out of this kitchen!"

He slammed things this way and that, trying to clean up in anger while ignoring his "friend's" stare upon his backside.

"John, we need to talk."

Watson threw his hands up in the air without even looking at him. "No. No, no no, that's not going to happen." He began scrubbing the counter of some sort of blue chemical.

"Now, John."

"No, Holmes!" He never said Holmes unless he was angry with him. Like he'd been earlier.

Holmes hadn't said Watson since the day they met. Until today.

"Johnathan Hamish Watson."

John stopped scrubbing and widened his eyes. He shook his head, and flung the washcloth down in anger. He took a moment, and then turned to face the detective. He gestured his hand in sarcasm, in a "pray continue" manner, staring him squarely in the face. He was completely unamused.

"So. What the fuck do you want?"

Sherlock stared at him with hard but contemplative eyes. "I want you to have packed and moved all your things out of this house by tomorrow afternoon."

John was confounded, his muscles loosening in complete terror. "What?"

Holmes nodded to him casually, shrugging. "You heard me. I'm kicking you out."

Watson blinked, rubbing his eyes and trying to comprehend what he said. "But, you can't _do_ that. Only Mrs. Hudson can."

"We both know this isn't going to work, John." He said, taking off his gloves and placing them in his pockets. "You see, I cannot have you interfering with cases, as you just did today."

"You were bloody insane! You might have killed the poor woman!"

"Poor? I should say you thought she deserved it, Judging from the way you acted at the crime scene a few days ago."

"You should have let the police handle th-"

"The POLICE can handle NOTHING!" Sherlock suddenly snapped, whipping his scarf off in anger. "Only I can."

John shook his head. "You think you're such a genius? You think you're the best? Well you're NOT, Sherlock! The world doesn't revolve around you! Or have you deleted the fact that the sun goes round the earth again? I wouldn't be surprised!"

He stormed away, wanting to climb the stairs to his room and lock his door.

Holmes grabbed his arm forcefully, not caring if there was any pain involved. "John, don't raise your voice like that, it doesn't become you."

That does it. "Sherlock FUCKING Holmes!" He whipped around, pointing an accusing finger in his face. "EMOTIONS don't become YOU, now do they?" He pushed him a bit for good measure. "You can't even FUCKING argue properly! You're even incapable of getting angry with me! That's just fucking sad. I feel so... SORRY for you! Sorry's not even the word!"

He'd stormed to the middle of the living room by now, pacing back and forth in rage. "I trusted you! I've trusted you since the moment we met! And now- Now you have to go and do this! No, Sherlock! I'm not moving out. You can fucking forget that! SO GO FUCK YOURSELF SHERLOCK! I'm sure you FUCKING need it!"

He heaved a heavy breath, staring wide eyed at the taller man. He was about to collapse, but he stood tall and erect, determined to see this through to the end. Sherlock would _not_ brush him off, and he would not be passive. He would get an emotion out of him, one way or another.

After a long moment of staring blankly into the doctor's eyes, he smiled softly. "Of course, John. You always know best." Sarcasm, as he walked to the door of the flat.

John immediately raced toward him and grabbed his arm roughly. "Don't you dare walk out on me!"

"Why John, when its obvious we're clearly not meant to live together? Honestly, if you want, you can even have the flat. I refuse to live with you ever again."

John slammed him against the wall, sick and tired of hearing that calm, disconnected drone. "And why the FUCK is that? Hmm? Sick of seeing my face, are you? Do you just detest my daughter? Does she 'cramp your style?' Do _I _cramp your style? Just like being alone?" He gripped the collar of his coat. "You fucking _sociopath_! WHY THE HELL IS IT SO DIFFICULT LIVING WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND?"

Silence as John's breathing was ragged, his heart pounding, and Sherlock's muted face all made up the bigger picture.

After a long moment, Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I have no friends."

John shook him again. "I AM your friend!"

Holmes shook his own head. "No, John... I have no friends. I... _can't _have friends."

Watson blinked, loosening his grip a bit. "What? What do you mean?"

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment in remorse (there, an emotion!) and lightly plucked John's hands away from his collar, laying them down at the doctor's sides.

"You're a liability. All friendships are. You really think I don't see and understand the need for them? I'm not stupid, you know. I just can't have them. Especially not you. I refuse to put you in harms way because I care about you. I have to stop caring, or else you'll get hurt." He shrugged, straightening his scarf and sniffing, blinking his eyes. "Its nothing personal, really."

John couldn't believe this. No, he _wouldn't_ believe this.

"You mean to tell me that you let me go off like that when you could have told me that to begin with? You couldn't _argue_ with me, like any normal human being?"

Sherlock rubbed his mouth. "We both know I'm not normal. And besides. I didn't want you to hold that in when I deserved it."

John was shocked, and he blinked in surprise. "You, saying you deserve a verbal beating? YOU?"

Sherlock merely stood there and nodded.

John couldn't take this any more. "You know what Holmes? Fine. I am staying in this house, but _I_ refuse to associate with you, if that's how you want it."

He nodded again. "It is... Watson."

His heart stopped. No. This wasn't really happening. It couldn't be happening. Don't say it, John, don't say it. Don't say it because you're going to regret it.

But it was too late.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

He dragged himself upstairs and shut the door, locking it swiftly behind him.

Immediately following the shutting of the door, his mobile rang in his pocket. Frustrated, not wanting to face anyone but his daughter and his sheets yet, he begrudgingly pressed hello.

"Dr. Watson? This is Dr. George Harper. From the clinic? We work together..."

Watson rubbed his forehead, realizing exactly who he was. "Yes, yes, Harper, right. What do you need? I can't come in today, sorry."

"No no, its not about that at all. Sarah wanted me to relay you this information, as she's out on holiday with her parents. Something about a paternity test, right?"

John gasped. "Yes, yes! Please, continue!" he said excitedly, fully energized now. He smiled at his daughter in her crib, giving her a thumbs up. She grinned in reply.

He moved toward his nightstand and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, prepared to write down the father's information.

"So the results came in, right?"

He could almost see the man nod on the other side of the phone. "Yep! You want me to read off his information, yeah?"

John nodded as well, tapping the pen on the nightstand impatiently. This was the perfect thing to get his mind off of Holmes. Just the name caused a sharp pain in his chest. "Of course! I'm ready to write it all down, though if you want, you can email it to me later. Just... Just read off his information for me, please."

He looked back toward Amy, beaming at her in complete joy at the prospect of knowing her father's name. Finally, he would be able to hear that laughter again.

"Okay, here goes. The guy's name is a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, lives on Baker Street, occupation's some sort of consulting detective, whatever the hell that means, dark hair, light eyes, fair complexion, thin, over six feet, that's a doozy, anemic when he was a child, several broken noses over the course of his life, as well as broken bones, some stitches a few years ago, admitted multiple times for drug abuse, supposedly clean now, but he's on a watch list, personal quote includes: 'when you have eliminated the impossible, all the remains is the truth...' This guy's pretty eccentric, John. Sorry he has to be the father of your kid! Not like you have to seek him out, or anything, but still, it makes ya wonder what your daughter's gonna be like... John? John are you even listening to me? John are you there...? Was it something I said? John! John? _John!_"


	12. Impossible

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,114 words.

**Rating:** T for tean.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** For this chapter, suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin'. For the rest onward, expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

FOR THIS CHAPTER EXPECT LOTS OF CURSING! The rating is not going to go up, because I think you can handle it for one chapter, if not, just tell me and I'll bump up the rating for the fic, but I'd rather not.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **I know you all hated me for SUCH a cliffhanger that last chapter. This one is also very heartwrenching, just so you know. I don't know when we'll get back to the cuteness, if ever, but it might be a while. Anyway... ENJOY!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>The room was spinning.<p>

Was it morning or night? Was he dead? Did he die?

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't stand the way his fingernails dug into his thigh.

Head... Spinning... Can't... Breathe.

"John? Look, John, this isn't funny."

"W-what?"

Barely a word, but there it was.

"I said are you alright? You haven't spoken for some time... Do... Do you know this person."

John swallowed hard, struggling with the words he could hardly form. "Y-yes... and no... I mean... Uh... T-thank you... for telling me... I'll have to let you go now. See you at the clinic. Goodbye."

The man couldn't even get a word in before he hang up the phone.

A knock at the door.

"W-who is it?" he said with a voice so small and so cracked that it might have belonged to a frightened child. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and put away the sheet of paper and pen, clearly not needing them.

Silence for a long moment. John had thought whoever it was had gone, but then a voice called from beyond the door. "Its Sherlock."

John about collapsed. He'd hoped to God it had been Mrs. Hudson. But no, fate wasn't kind enough for that.

The man feigned being upset at him, but really, he was just too incoherent to think. "Go away."

Like a child.

"No."

Such defiance.

"What do you want?"

Another long moment of silence. John hung his head in his hands, nearly breaking out in sobs, but holding it in.

"I want to talk to you."

"Yeah, well, you had that chance."

"I don't think you comprehended what I meant-"

"I know DAMN WELL what you meant!" he barked.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flicker of fear. He turned his head and saw his daughter, her face rippling with shock as she huddled in the back of her crib.

John immediately walked over to her with wide eyes. He shook his head at her, trying to reassure her by picking her up and kissing her forehead. She was a good little girl, and didn't cry out, but her face contorted into a grimace and tears stained her cheeks. He hugged her close and began to sob silently, stumbling back onto the bed with his girl in his arms.

Another very long moment. Finally, a reply.

"You're- … You're my best friend."

John looked to the door in shock. "What?"

He thought he heard a soft thump as Sherlock leaned his head against the wood.

"You're my best friend, and my only friend. None of it would matter... I wouldn't care, if you weren't my best friend. I care when people hurt you... When... When I hurt you... I can't have that. I can't have a heart like this, its... its dangerous."

The doctor couldn't move now, but he could speak. "When have you ever been against dangerous...?" he said half jokingly, but not without his voice faltering.

He thought he heard the other man's breath cach in his throat.

"Isn't your daughter in your arms?"

Heart pounding. He stared down at her dark curls, now finally realizing how much they looked just like _his_.

"Yes."

"Then how long do you think it will take before someone like Moriarty comes and takes her away, John? Do you want her to end up like the missing body of that dead baby? Do you?"

"Shut up!"

He cradled her in his arms, not wanting to hear any of this, especially when the man was talking about his own daughter too.

But he didn't know.

Or did he?

Couldn't he tell? Or maybe he was like John, and just not willing to believe it. They looked just alike. The answer had been staring him in the face for so long, but he just couldn't accept it.

He couldn't accept the fact that he'd been dreaming about Sherlock for who knows how long.

He couldn't accept the fact that he'd tasted the lips that had told him to move out.

He couldn't accept the fact that he'd been looking into the face of his daughter every day, even when she wasn't near.

He couldn't accept the fact that he'd made love to the man standing outside his bedroom door, trying to apologize in his own sociopathic way.

John shook silently as he waited for some sort of retort, some sort of quick jibe to his intelligence or his word choice or his being difficult.

It didn't come. There was no sound outside the door. No murmur, no sigh, nothing.

He looked back down at Amy, breathing heavily and tears streaming down his face.

After a long moment, he got up, and set the calmed girl in her crib, placing her pacifier in her mouth and letting her sleep. The tears kept falling.

He touched her hair, stroked her cheek, rubbed her nose. He bent down and looked through the bars, seeing not her face but his. He felt like an idiot for not realizing it before. She was a carbon copy of Sherlock Holmes.

A jingle and a rattle, and his door was open.

John stood erect and looked to the door, preparing himself for the worst.

Instead, he saw the best.

"S-Sherlock!"

The man was crying.

He could see the man rubbing the keys in anguish, never averting his eyes, not even sobbing. Just crying. He stood there awkwardly in the doorway, like he didn't know what to do, whether to come in, whether he was wanted.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "I... I hate these blasted tears. They haven't stopped, you see, since you ran upstairs, and they're a dreadful pain... Can you make them stop?"

John shuddered, his brow furrowing, nearly ready to sob himself.

He looked down, hand gripping the wood of the crib tightly, in case he should fall down and never get back up. This was too much. Too much. He could hardly breathe.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm sorry."

John looked up, startled, and blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" the detective bit back. "I'll take it back if you don't shut up!"

The man was shaking now.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" he shuddered, running to the man and capturing him in his arms. The man stiffened immediately, but didn't try to wriggle out of the position.

John couldn't breathe again. What had he been thinking? Only moments after finding out that this was the man who had fathered his child was he in his arms, both of them crying with each other. What was _wrong_ with him?

They were in this awkward position together, and neither of them knew what to do.

"John... you know it makes a considerable amount of difference to me... having someone on which I can thoroughly rely..."

John nodded against him, tightening his grip, as if he let go he'd never see him again. "I know, Sherlock. I know."

Without warning, the taller man's arms were around him.

"Hnn! Sherlock!"

He didn't say anything in return, no explanation. They were both in each other's arms now. John didn't know what to do. His heart was beating like a butterfly's wings, and he felt he might faint soon. The only words echoing his heads were something akin to I love you... And they weren't just in Sherlock's voice either.

His throat leaped when Sherlock pressed his cheek against John's head. "Sherlock..." he whispered.

"Stop saying my name," the other man said gruffly, annoyed. "Its repetitive."

He nodded against the man's jacket, gripping his hands tighter around Sherlock's waist.

The man stiffened again, and leg go, moving away from John's embrace and turning away, ready to walk down the stairs.

John grabbed his thin wrist and spun him back around to face him, and brought his face down to his.

That was when he kissed him.

He'd meant for it to be urgent and passionate, but that wasn't what it turned out like at all. It was rather soft and moist, from their mingling tears.

Didn't help that it only lasted about five seconds.

Sherlock pushed him away and stared at him in shock, liquid sadness still streaming down his face. He shook his head when John tried to move toward him, and stepped back.

He was gone before John could even blink.

He collapsed to the ground, sobbing. No, this wasn't right. Did he really just ruin his friendship forever?

But he had wanted to taste them again, the lips, to see if they really were the lips he'd kissed the night his daughter was conceived.

They were.

The memories came flooding back, one by one. The drinks, the deductions, the mindless laughter, the smile he thought he'd never see again. It was all there, blaring in his head, spitting blood into his memory and coughing up alcohol, biting back the words that were echoing in his ear. He couldn't say it, not when he'd denied it from himself all along. He couldn't tell him, now that he'd been rejected without even accepting his own feelings.

He couldn't bear the loss.

"I love you..."

He rocked back and forth, his face nearly touching the ground. He clutched his stomach and shuddered. Was this what it was like to feel your whole world crashing down around you?

"Dada!"

He sat up abruptly at the sound of the voice. He looked immediately to Amy, standing up in her crib and hanging on the side, reaching out to him and saying over again with glee "Dada, Dada!"

John's face lit up in happiness. "Dada? You just... you just called me Dada!"

He jumped up and nearly ran to her, picking her up and spinning her around, giving her a large kiss on the cheek. She kept pawing at his face, never ceasing to call him Dada. "S-Sherlock has to see this! Sherlo-"

He stopped himself, realizing the man wasn't going to answer.

His heart sank, and he cradled the giggling girl in his arms, staring at the door.

Sherlock was her father.

John was her father.

What could he do? What could he say?

"Dada?" she said again, looking up at him through wide and kind eyes.

Nothing. He could do nothing. He could say nothing. It would be impossible to live with him after this, but John knew that Dolores needed to be with the only person in the world who still called her that, simply out of spite. He needed her to be with her father. Both of them.

But he would never say anything. Sherlock wouldn't want it. He wouldn't have it. No matter how fond he'd grown of Amy, he wouldn't be able to handle her as his daughter. He was unattached, as displayed clearly tonight. So he would never tell him. He would live for him, he would die for him, but he'd never tell him. He decided this just as the rain began to beat down against his window.

He knew the detective was out in the weather, drinking it in to fill his sorrows with something cold and unyielding.

Impossible, the man would say, upon learning of his daughter. Impossible, because you have to feel love in order to make something out of love.

John knew now that the night he slept with the mysterious stranger he had fallen in love. He had been wrong.

You _can _fall in love when you're drunk.

* * *

><p><strong>FINALLY, right? Honestly. Took them long enough. Stupid Sherlock for running away! HOW COULD HE! xDDDD<strong>

**Oh, don't forget guys, THE COLLAB FIC IS UP! My best friend Yours Truly-Jill the Ripper and I are writing a Sherlock v. Jack the Ripper fic, and the prologue and first chapter is up. It hasn't been getting the traffic it should so I COMMAND YOU NOW TO GO READ, FAVE, ALERT, REVIEW, AND LOVE IT! OR ELSE I'LL NEVER FINISH THIIIIS FIC! MWAHAHAHA**

**I kid I kid. But seriously, guys, the fic's amazing. Go read Checkmate. It'll tide you over till the next chapter! And don't forget the Case of the Forgotten Doctor either!**

**As always, my lovelies, read and review!**


	13. To the Ends of the Earth

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 3,745 words.

**Rating:** T for tean.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** For this chapter, suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin'. For the rest onward, expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **This is THE longest chapter yet, guys, and PROBABLY the most important, save for the first, since without the first, well, where would the fic be? XDD Enjoy, I really loved writing this chapter, especially Sherlock's dialogue.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

The flat was quiet.

He hadn't really expected an answer, though it would have been nice.

Nice? To what? Hear his voice?

Yes, that would have been nice, if not a little depressing on John's part.

Perhaps he'd left for good, and never came back? He didn't know if he could handle that, knowing_ he'd_ ruined their relationship forever. Was he even able to apologize? Or had Sherlock gone to the ends of the earth to run away from him?

Whatever the case may be, John was depressed and alone.

Tea might be nice too.

He went to make tea. That was a small comfort, at least. He straightened his jumper and flipped on the tele to the news, just to listen. He shuffled to the kitchen and rubbed his aching back, turning on the light.

His dreams had been cruel the night before. It wasn't enough that the _entire night he met Sherlock_ (the first time) was replayed over and over again in his mind. That would have been wonderful, to forget that he didn't love him back.

No, that would have been merciful. He was acutely aware through the whole thing that this was a dream. The dream was a true harsh reality, as he'd stared lovingly at Sherlock's face when his mind's eye saw the reject and turmoil they were both really going when he'd kissed him, even when Sherlock had made love to him, his mind was distant, and he couldn't even feel the sweet touch of his skin.

He had awoke in a cold sweat just as he'd kissed his companions soft, dark curls in the dream.

His daughter was still asleep, probably dreaming of ponies and butterflies and her fathers.

John was busy making tea to calm his frazzled nerves.

And Sherlock... Well, he didn't know where Sherlock was.

He poured the tea in a broken cup (the only one that was clean), the saucer surprisingly unscathed. He'd made sure Sherlock glued the thing together immediately, abhorred at the fact that it had been the _fourth_ cup he'd destroyed that week in an experiment.

"_But it's an experiment! I need them!" he'd pleaded._

_John had glared at him. "Go buy your own cups and leave mine alone!"_

_Sherlock had pouted. "Your cups are so much better... because they're yours."_

John blushed at the memory, staring down at the cracked- and yet completely usable- cup. Holmes had restored its shape perfectly with the strongest glue available, and hadn't touched it again. It even had its own space in the cupboard.

The doctor rubbed his mouth, shaking as tears began to brim. He wiped them away and carried the cup and saucer carefully to the living room, and stood by the coffee table to try and regain his composure.

He sipped steadily, staring at the screen, barely even taking in the news.

"Top news story this morning, an attempted suicide currently in progress. Not much information so far, but updates are coming in every few minutes. We'll be keeping you posted during this man's hour of need."

"Poor bloke," John said as a person's mobile video played across the screen as the woman speaking said where the jumper was. It panned up to the depressed bugger staring down at the street. He was a little ant upon a large mound, his pale face barely visible. John could only see his long coat flapping in the wind.

"All we have currently on the visual front is this mobile video, taken just a few minutes ago by a helpful citizen, and sent to us promptly. We're working on the name as we speak, but for now we're told the man has not yet jumped, though the crowd is trying to convince him not to."

John wondered who in their right mind would try jumping off a building. There's honestly gotta be better ways to go.

"We're told by the same helpful citizen currently on call that the man's foot is hovering over the ground, we're trying to get a rescue team over there as soon as possible. Wait! The man is hesitating! Perhaps the crowd is encouraging him, though he's moving to the other side of the building." The same video kept playing over and over again with the woman speaking as an interval.

Funny, the man's profile reminded him of someone. Perhaps a guy at the office?

"Someone in the crowd has recognized the man, and he is being identified as a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, famous for his detective work as recorded in the blog of a local medical doctor. We've no idea currently if he's on a case or this business is serious, but we'll keep you updated."

The cup clattered to the ground, and smashed (again) into a million little pieces.

"MRS. HUDSON! LOOK AFTER AMY FOR ME! I- I'VE GOT TO SAVE SHERLOCK!"

The shout was heard round the world.

* * *

><p>His feet couldn't carry him fast enough.<p>

There were no people in the streets, just the wind. They'd all gathered around his Sherlock, anticipating his fall from grace.

Bastards. They flocked like buzzards to the kill, feeding off any sort of excitement to satiate their morbid curiosity. They didn't stop to think about how Sherlock felt, having people stare up at him as he committed the ultimate crime. Sherlock would hate this. He hated the attention of the media, of the people.

"Sherlock!" he cried breathlessly, his heart pounding and his lungs ready to burst. But he had to keep running, keep pushing until he knew it was over, knew the outcome, the solution. Let him be alive. Let him keep breathing.

He neared the screaming crowd and began to push through relentlessly. They shoved him back, but he screamed intelligible curses at them, until they backed off. They were shouting up to Sherlock, encouraging him not to jump. At least they were courteous in that sense.

He didn't waste time before he rounded the corner of the building and slammed into the door, it swinging open and he tumbling inside. He took to the climb like a moth to a flame.

The race up the stairs was grueling torture, each step taking longer than the next, until he was certain he would never make it in time. His wound flared continuously, but his mind would not beat him. He was invincible.

And he was flying.

John saw the light from the door. Almost there. So close, and yet still so far. Behind that door would be the deciding factor of the rest of his life. Would he live, or would he die?

Because he knew for certain that a world without Sherlock Holmes would not be a world he'd want to live in at all.

One last lurch up the steps, and he was there, banging on the door. "Sherlock Holmes! Open this door right now!"

No answer. He banged and banged. Was it too late? Had the detective leaped to his death already?

He prayed to God that wasn't the case.

John began sobbing, begging the man to open the door, to not do this because of him, they could work it out.

One last slam from his whole body and a loud sob. Nothing.

But he suddenly realized as he pressed his body against the door that his gun was resting in his pocket, itching to be fired.

He greedily pulled it out and braced himself, firing at the lock on the door like an enemy. Well, it was. It was keeping him from saving Sherlock.

He kicked the door open, and stumbled into the sunlight.

He gasped and fell to the ground, the open air relieving his lungs of the constraint he placed on them in the confined stairwell. He breathed heavily and tried to regain the energy he lost to the adrenaline rush.

"Sh-Sherlock!" he squeaked, clutching his chest and looking up at the man through the heavy wind.

Holmes' back was turned toward John, standing on the ledge and looking directly down to the ground. The doctor's words caught in his throat upon realizing the man was closer to the edge than he thought.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

It took him a long moment to answer, but finally, he spoke in a small voice, barely a whisper carried on the wind.

"I'm thinking."

John blinked, standing up with a heavy breath. "You're _thinking_? When you've got all of London _thinking_ you're about to commit suicide?"

The man didn't speak for a moment. "They were the ones who assumed too quickly. Really, this is a very convenient spot for a man to think."

The doctor glared at him. "Don't you _think_ there are_ safer_ spots to _think_ around here, Sherlock?"

Holmes turned to him, and John's breath hitched in his throat. The man's eyes were red, but cleared of all tear stains. He'd suspected they dried quickly in this kind of wind.

"No. Not when I'm _thinking_ about jumping." He sniffed, and turned back to the open air.

John stepped toward him in desperation. "Are you insane? No, wait, don't answer that. You _are_ insane!"

Sherlock shrugged, huddling his disheveled coat around him. As he got a good look at him, John realized he'd been through hell and back. His coat was wrinkled, his pants ripped at the knees and calves, his scarf was missing, his hair was damp with sweat and rain from the night before, and he looked ready to cry again. But he didn't. He just looked directly into the sky and closed his eyes, parting his lips and taking a deep breath.

"I've become obsolete."

John was confused. "Come again? Obsolete?"

The man nodded, eyes still closed. He looked deep in thought. "I now have feelings. Sociopaths cannot function properly with feelings."

John moved even closer, looking up at the man an yearning to reach out and touch the hand resting is coat pocket. "Did you ever think about _not _being a sociopath?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, and rolled them at him. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't know if you've noticed John, but all of the observations I make are due to my ability to distance myself from emotional connections. Its one of the reasons you can't make heads or tails of whether a person's hair indicates their level of stress." He moved back a bit, thankfully, probably so as to talk to John better. "My life is dedicated to being a detective. I cannot observe if I am able to see."

John nearly started to shed tears at this sad man's confession. To live without feelings... How could he stand it? How could he never want to know what it was like to feel absolute bliss at the prospect of someone loving you?

He climbed up onto the ledge a bit, clutching at his pant leg as he stared up Sherlock. "Maybe it's time you saw the world for once, Sherlock, instead of analyzing it."

He saw Sherlock's eyes flicker down to him for a moment. Suddenly, the man moved to a sitting position, legs dangling over the side precariously. At least he might be a little safer this way.

"That is also ridiculous. I'm not built for seeing, for feeling things. I can't feel. I honestly don't-"

"What if I wanted you to?"

Sherlock looked to him, blue eyes staring into blue. "It's not about wanting to anymore, John. I... I _need_ to be detached. I can't... I can't let that night happen again."

John blinked. "What?"

"The night... The night we met, really met. You remember it now, don't you? I knew you didn't when Mike 'introduced' us, so I haven't said anything. I... I let myself get out of hand. Those were the days when I wasn't clean, John. I still smoked, I drank, I buggered around, I did all sorts of things I'm not proud of. Funny, me being not proud. Shocking, isn't it?"

John grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. "So you're saying you remembered this WHOLE time, and you didn't tell me?"

The man nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. "Of course. How could I forget a thing like that? You were the best I ever had, you know."

John blushed, letting go of his arms and turning away. "You should have told me."

"And risk losing my blogger? Never!"

The doctor growled. "Can't you ever be serious? Just once?"

Sherlock's gaze never wavered. "I am being serious. John, if it hadn't been for you coming to live with me, I probably would have ended up starving to death, or developing a complete case of insomnia, or end up dead in one of my cases. I was... slowly spiraling downward. I much liked my life, and if you knew, then our relationship might not be the same. You would want more, as you do now, or you might leave me. I, of course, didn't count on myself 'falling in love with you,' to put it in vulgar terms. Really, there's no such thing as love anyway, its merely an errant set of heart palpitations that could be masked as fleeting desire.

"But... when I began having said palpitations for you, I realized I was becoming obsolete. If I am obsolete, then there is no point in continuing to live. Thus my predicament here, deciding whether or not to plunge to my death."

John had been slowly shaking his head the entire speech. He got up and paced back and forth in anger as he spoke. "Is this really how you think Sherlock? Are feelings out to get you? Do you even REALIZE that I might love you back? God, do you even know what love is? Don't give me that bullshit about being married to your work! You can't just kill yourself because you fell in love! You think you'll be doing the world a favor by jumping, but you're doing it a disservice! What about all those people who count on you to solve their problems, to save their loved ones, to figure out the culprit! You say you don't read my blog, but I know you do. Have you even read some of the comments about our cases? You're a hero to them, Sherlock!"

Holmes glared at him. "Don't make people into heroes, John. They don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not making you into a hero, Sherlock." He stomped over to the ledge, and pointed down at the concerned crowd. They were still screaming "Don't Jump! Don't do it Sherlock!" They were his fans and the rest of the public alike, all hoping to inspire him the will to live.

He looked back up into Sherlock's eyes, close enough to kiss him now. "You _are_ a hero. They don't give a damn if you're obsolete. They want to know they're safe, and that you'll be there for them in their hour of need." He paused, looking down at Sherlock's hand resting on the concrete ledge. "They love you... I... I love you."

He rested his hand on top of Sherlock's. His heart fluttered, and he pleaded wordlessly to the man stay with him, to stay with the world.

He pulled his hand away, and John blushed. "I'm no use to you anymore. I'm no use to any of those people like this. I... I can't think straight! I've never been able to not think in my entire life! I-" He stopped mid-rant, then continued in a small voice, "I'm scared."

John wanted to reach out and hold the very large, but at that moment very small, man. "And I'm not? Do you even realize how terrified I am for loving a sociopath?"

"But you've loved before! You've felt these emotions before, even expecting them. You love your daughter, and now me. I've never loved anyone in my life before!"

At the mention of Amy, he decided then and there he couldn't tell Sherlock about her. He was afraid a sudden influx of new emotions would push him over the edge.

John smiled softly at him. "You sound like teenager falling in love for the first time."

Sherlock glared at him. "I know exactly what you're going to say, John. 'Oh, you're just experiencing love for the first time, everyone feels that way, its perfectly normal,'" he feigned John's accent perfectly. "It is not normal, John. Not for me."

"I've never been in love before, Sherlock, did you know that?" he said. "Yes, I've had flings, girls I liked, girls I didn't like. I've never cared for anyone else in this world more than I care about my daughter. However, I care more about _you_ than I do about Harry, my own sister." He paused. "You do realize I'd die for you, right?"

Sherlock growled, jumping over the ledge (to the safe side) and stood glaring at him. "I don't _want_ you to feel that way! I don't want anyone to feel that way about me! How could anyone love me when I can't even love myself?"

Finally, some tears.

The wind had quieted a few minutes ago, and Sherlock's tears were flowing freely. "These emotions _piss me off_! I can't stand them, how they rip my heart to shreds. The heart doesn't really have emotions! Its just an organ! AN ORGAN! WHY IS EVERYTHING IN MY ENTIRE BEING TELLING ME ITS MORE THAN THAT WHEN I CLEARLY KNOW IT ISN'T!" He clutched at his head in frustration as he screamed, miserable beyond all belief. He collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

John rushed toward him and covered the hands on his curls with his own, trying to get him to calm down (though John wasn't too calm himself, so he didn't know how it would help). "Sherlock! Sherlock please, calm down! Please!" he begged.

Holmes moved away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands and curling up into his typical fetal position, with his hands on his knees. John was so grateful that he wasn't sitting on the ledge anymore.

"John, I need you to move out. If I'm not to jump, then you have to move out."

John shook his head. "No." He scooted closer. "No, because you need me. You said so yourself. I'm your rock."

"Then stop being so perfect!" Sherlock barked.

John was surprised. "Perfect? Me? You're kidding right?"

The man stared at him blankly. "When have I ever joked about something like this?"

The doctor shrugged. "How do you mean perfect, then? I'm not perfect."

"Yes you are. You're the most perfect individual I've ever encountered."

John pursed his lips. "You're lying."

"I only lie when it suits my purposes. Do you think I would lie to you right now?"

John sighed. "Well, I'm not lying to you either. I'm not perfect."

Suddenly, Sherlock's gaze turned steely. "Not lying to me? Are you sure?" There was an undercurrent of warning in his voice.

John was confused. "Y-yes... Why?"

He kept glaring at him, and whipped out his phone, searching through his messages until he found one in particular that was sent that very morning. He stood up and threw the phone down at John. "Moriarty certainly doesn't think so."

Across the screen, four words echoed over and over again, in all caps: "He's lying to you." At the very end of the message, the letter M was colored in red and bolded.

"Aw, come on Sherlock, you're not gonna listen to this nutter are you? He's messing with your head!"

"Is he?" the man said, raising an eyebrow at his companion, looking wholly unamused.

John got up, and looked at the text again. "Of course he is! I've never lied to you Sherlock."

The man's eyes narrowed when John looked up. "So you say... And yet your pulse has quickened significantly at the mention of the word 'lie,' am I correct?"

John blinked. "How did you- I mean- No, you're not, but you just said a few minutes ago you couldn't deduce anything anymore. What's this?"

Sherlock's gaze softened, and he shrugged with a sigh. "Maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Never mind."

John stared at him for a long moment. "You still gonna kill yourself?"

Sherlock looked back up, his eyes a startling shade of bright blue now, like the sky above them. "No. As long as you don't pursue me."

The doctor raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Pursue? How so?"

"My affections. I refuse to have anything to do with silliness like love. If it nearly drives me to take my own life, it is useless to me."

John was at a loss. On the one hand, he wanted Sherlock to be able to feel what John felt for him, this extended state of happiness. But on the other, Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock anymore, he wouldn't be the man looked up to... as a hero. He would be miserable.

He would sacrifice himself for this man, just like he would give his life for him. He would be the miserable one, to lift the burden from the detective's shoulders.

He would quietly love him till the day he died.

_Quietly_.

"Okay," he said.

Sherlock nodded numbly, and sniffed. He began to walk to the door to the roof, and John breathed a sigh of relief, and stumbled over to the ledge, trying to send down a thumbs up sign to the waiting crowd. He got that far (and heard the crowd cheering at their rejuvenated detective), but stumbled, and nearly fell over the edge himself.

That is, until he felt two large, spindly hands clasp his waist and pull him up, steadying him on the ground.

"John, do be careful. I don't know what I'd do without my blogger."

He smiled on the inside, but nodded curtly on the outside.

He suspected, in his own way, Sherlock was thanking him for saving his life.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, I lied, Sarah is PROBABLY going to date John, and we might still have Mycroft. Still not sure about him though. It just depended on how I wanted to write this chapter.<strong>

**So? What'dya think! Like I said, you could tell why this was the most important chapter, huh? It'll take a little while for our boys to get together, especially since Sherly is now denying his feelings, and forcing John to hold it inside. But what's John supposed to do if he wants to stay with him? D8**

**This chapter is where I'll be taking a break from this fic, or at least updating less rapidly like I normally do. I have school, and I want to write my other two fics, because this one has been getting all the love. You'll get a new chapter as soon as I can, I promise! Hope you enjoyed!**

**And why yes, I DID name this chapter to the Ends of the Earth because of Benedict's BBC miniseries. I'm sneaky like that for even incoorperating it into the story... *tehehehe!***

**As always lovlies, read and review!**


	14. Today

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,800 words.

**Rating:** T for teen.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh)

**Warning(s):** Suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin', violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **TADA! Nice new shiny chapter! This one was inspired by the song All This Time by OneRepublic. Go listen, its so Written in the Stars! Oh, and btw, it has come to my attention that EVERY SINGLE chapter of this fic I forgot to change the warnings and content, as well as pairing. Just so you know, I think it was nlthalia who said something about it, Dolores will be THE only child. I think you guys got confused because you kept reading the warnings and such, when those are actually old warnings. I'll do better next time. Now the stuff is just generic for the whole fic, and not specific chapters so as not to confuse you!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>"Happy New Year's!"<p>

Well, at least John was in high spirits.

He couldn't say the same for his dark haired friend. The detective was positively wrought with negative energy. The doctor couldn't understand his dour mood on such a joyous occasion, so he asked him, "Why the long face, Sherlock?"

The detective rolled his eyes, pulling his feet up to his chest in his armchair and flipping open his laptop, staring at the bags of alcohol and assorted finger foods John had bought from the shop.

"I detest New Year's Eve."

John frowned. "And why is that?"

Sherlock shrugged, typing away loudly on the keyboard. "I'd rather not discuss it, thanks."

John sat back on the couch, hands on his knees and shrugging. "Okay... What do you want to discuss?"

Never breaking his focus from the computer screen, the man said, "Why _precisely _there are bottles of alcohol on our coffee table."

John raised an eyebrow. "Because... Its... New Year's?" He looked at him as if he was a moron.

Sherlock didn't notice, but licked his lips. "I told you, I detest New Year's."

The doctor sighed. "Well, could you at least humour me for the night? Please?" He sent a pleading look the detective's way.

Sherlock looked up, blinking. "Really John, you know what happened last time we got drunk together." He went back to his computer screen, ending the discussion without another word.

Watson slumped in defeat. Yes, he did know what happened last time. _Amy_ had happened. Of course Holmes didn't know that. He was still skeptical of the man _not _knowing. After all, Sherlock was a genius. They'd already discussed his resemblance to Amy, and John had been worried he knew. But he'd merely suggested that either he was related to John in some form or fashion, or related to the girl's _"mother." _He wasn't too far off the target, on the being related thing. He just didn't know how related they _truly _were.

The girl had grown rapidly over the two years the three of them had lived together. Not just in looks, but in brains as well. The little three year old could already speak in complete (not to mention complex) sentences, and was reading Dickens before she was potty trained (and she _was _potty trained by this time). Sherlock was even proud of her (imagine! Her own father proud of her!), and chalked it up to living around a certified genius.

She had Sherlock's curly hair, but it drooped past her shoulders and constantly got in her eyes. John forced her to wear bows in her hair, simply because the eyes were too beautiful to hide. When Sherlock wasn't around, or when he didn't want to be disturbed, John would just hold his daughter and stare into her eyes, as she talked to him excitedly about something nonsensical and childish (though always more mature than other three-year-olds her age). She reminded him so much of her father.

She had even taken to watching the detective perform his experiments, and had a keen interest in chemistry, even at her young age. She'd beg Sherlock to tell her about how it all worked, but he'd brush her aside, saying he had to focus. It pained him to see his daughter walk away in defeat, but he couldn't really say anything to Sherlock, since he thought he was just a "friend of the family."

_Tap tap tap._

The constant tapping was becoming annoying, especially since there was no other sound occupying the room.

"Sherlock, can you please stop, I'm trying to think."

"Hmm? About what? The status of your relationship with Sarah after that whole 'underwear' fiasco?"

John groaned. "I really don't want to talk about that. I don't even want to think about it!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I doubt you'll repair your relationship now. Honestly, how can one man possibly knock down an _entire bookstore's shelves_ by leaning on them, _and _pull down the woman's pants at the same time? Really, John, are you a whale?"

"Hey, shut up!" he growled, pulling a beer out of the alcohol bag and opening the top, getting up (and away from Sherlock). "It wasn't my fault! That shelve was unstable, and she was in the way!"

Just as he took a large sip of his beer, his daughter came bounding up the steps of the flat, dressed in bright colors and carrying her stuffed lady bug plushie (yes, lady bug. The girl was obsessed with insects). Amy ran up to him and grabbed his legs, and he stumbled back and swayed on his feet.

"Uh, Amy!" he laughed. "What'cha need, love?" He smiled down at her, crouching down and smoothing out her hair.

"Mrs. Hudson told me to tell you Happy New Year's, but I don't know what that is..." She frowned, poking her father's face and snuggling into his chest.

John chuckled, reaching behind him and setting the beer on the coffee table. "Its the start of a new year. You get a fresh new start on life, celebrate your past, and look forward to the future." He smiled and hugged her. He buried his face in her hair and sighed. "Isn't that a wonderful thing?"

"No."

"Sherlock..."

"It's not a wonderful thing. Who would want to celebrate their past?"

John rolled his eyes, and pulled away from her, smiling down at her round little face. She had John's face, no doubt about that. But Sherlock's nose, and his lips. "How are you going to start the new year off, Amy?"

She rocked back and forth on her heels and looked around the room. "Oh, perhaps I'll finish my collection of butterflies. There's not many... I want more!"

"More! But you have ten already!" She had taken to collecting butterflies and plucking them to a board in her room (which was located on the ground floor, as Watson had rented the extra room from Mrs. Hudson so that she'd have a place to stay. He would never move away from 221b Baker Street).

"But there's so many kinds out there, you know? They make everything more colorful!"

John laughed. "Well, maybe you'll find them all one day. Have you been reading the book on butterflies Uncle Sherlock and I bought for you for Christmas?"

She nodded happily, but Sherlock huffed. Probably at the Uncle Sherlock bit.

They both knew John was the one who bought it.

Suddenly, the laptop Sherlock was tapping on slammed shut, and a wide smile spread across the detective's face.

"Speaking of butterflies, I believe I'm getting some at the prospect of a _new case_!" he exclaimed, jumping out of his seat and bounding over to the door way. Just then John saw police lights flashing outside the window, and he knew Lestrade was on his way upstairs, case file in hand.

Sherlock was already in his coat, and he signaled John to do the same.

"Aw, Sherlock, but it's New Year's! What about Amy?"

He looked to his daughter, who's face was surprisingly hopeful.

"Oh, Dolores will be fine. She can pop in for tea with Mrs. Hudson and celebrate!" He slipped on his scarf and began heading out the door, even though Lestrade was hardly up the stairs.

John sighed, and looked down at his daughter, who's hand he was no holding. He walked her over to the coat rack and put on his jacket, saying to her, "I'm sorry, Amy. We'll be back soon, I promise."

The girl pouted. "Dad, can I go with you? Please? I want to fight crime like you and Uncle Sherlock!"

John chuckled, patting her head and leading her out the door. "Maybe someday..."

Sherlock scoffed ahead of them, currently reading over the file Lestrade had brought him. The Detective Inspector was already down the stairs, no need for further explaining. "Don't be ridiculous, John. The girl's far too scatter brained for crime 'fighting.'"

Amy was of course hurt, as John expected her to be. He glared at the detective, mouthing an "asshole" to him. Sherlock rolled his eyes, bounding down steps with the case file under his arm, his riding crop under the other.

"Come on, John. Crime awaits!"

John rolled his eyes and trudged after Sherlock. "Crime's always 'awaiting'," he called down. "Wait for me though, I have to drop off Amy with Mrs. Hudson!"

Sherlock ignored him and departed for the street, but John knew he would walk slowly so he could catch up.

He was just about to ring Mrs. Hudson, but his daughter was pulling at his hand. "What is it, Amy?"

He bent down and smoothed out the girl's hair again, as it was always frizzy. "Why does Uncle Sherlock always say mean things? Not just to me, but everyone!"

John's face softened, and his heart did indeed drop at the notion. "Well... Uncle Sherlock's a little lonely, and belittling people is his way of comforting himself, I think."

"He's lonely? But what about you and me? We're his friends, right?"

John chuckled sadly. "Yes, we're his friends, in fact probably his only friends. But sometimes having friends isn't enough. He's... He's a sociopath, and that means it's hard for him to feel real feelings, like love," John replied, but paused. "No, _especially _love."

She frowned. "He doesn't love anyone? But I thought he loved you! He makes you so happy all the time..."

It was hard for John to keep his composure at that idea. "No, he doesn't love me. I... I wish he did."

"'Cause you love him, right?"

He squeezed her hand and put on his best fake smile. "Yes, I love him very much." He crouched down and hugged her, kissing her cheek. "But not nearly as much as I love you!"

She giggled, and kissed him back. "Good, because then we'd have some problems."

John laughed. "Oh really! What sort of problems?" He began tickling her, and she kept on giggling.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson heard all the commotion and opened her door. "What's all this ruckus then, dearies? Off to fight crime again, John?"

John was still laughing, and picked the girl up and hugged her close. "Always, Mrs. Hudson, always." He kissed Amy's cheek again, and handed her off to Mrs. Hudson. "Be back in a jiffy!"

He smiled to comfort the little depressed girl in his landlady's arms. "Happy New Year's, Amy."

Her beautiful face brightened, and she wrapped her arms around Mrs. Hudson's neck. "Happy New Year's, Dad."

John smiled again, nodding his head to the older woman, and walked away.

* * *

><p>When John finally caught up to Sherlock completely, they were already a third of the way across London to their destination. Apparently Sherlock hadn't thought to wait for him after all. Insufferable git.<p>

"You couldn't slow down once in a while? I'm not what I used to be, you know!" he exclaimed, breath heaving.

Sherlock was busy texting on his phone, his long stride never faltering. "What's that, an able bodied soldier? Come now, John, I would think a man such as you would have realized that by now."

John rolled his eyes, settling into a steady rhythm next to the ever confident detective. They were always like this. Nowadays, no one he knew could picture the pair of them apart. It made being near him even more bittersweet, knowing what people thought, what people thought they _knew_, him knowing it was never the truth no matter how hard he wished it to be.

Two years of agonizing peacefulness. It was nearly unbearable, save for the times when he saw his best friend smile. Those times made the hard work all worthwhile.

Sometimes he let it slip, how he really felt. It wasn't like Sherlock hadn't known, at first. He felt it, the way the ill-mannered man looked sorry for him, as if he was pitying him for loving a sociopath. Then those looks became sparse, until he hardly saw them at all. Sometimes he'd feel like Sherlock had deleted the memory of John's love from his hard-drive, perhaps even deleting his denied reciprocated love. He wouldn't put it past the emotionally detached man.

"What happened, exactly?" John asked, trying to peer over the man's ridiculously tall shoulder to see what he was texting.

Sherlock subconsciously moved away slightly, so as not to let John see. "Jewelry theft. Nothing really fancy, except the accessories were stolen right from underneath the woman's nose. Literally. Mrs. Olivia Hatsford, a local socialite with a tendency to grace the tabloids with scandalous affairs, was throwing a New Year's Eve Masquerade party this evening, and was caught totally by surprise when she found her priceless black diamond necklace ripped silently away from her very throat after a dance with a mysterious masked stranger." Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "Having a Masquerade is completely ridiculous because it would be the perfect time for crime to strike. If a criminal is careful enough, it can be near impossible to identify them." He smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets and the phone with them. "Well, I say near, but they never really count on me, do they?"

John laughed. "No, I don't think they do. I suppose you'll have this case solved in an hour?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a smile. "Most likely."

The doctor nodded, shoving his own hands in his coat pockets to protect them from the bitter cold. "You humble yourself, Sherlock," he joked.

The other man laughed as well. "Only with you around, John. Otherwise I'd be completely lost in my own overwhelming ego."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Ah, so the man admits it! He's finally come to terms with his pompous attitude! Bravo, I say, Holmes, bravo!"

His feigned clapping was just the icing on the cake.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and giggled (he'd taken to giggling recently, a shock to John and everyone around them) just as fireworks went off overhead. "God, can't they keep it to themselves?"

"You don't like fireworks?"

"I don't like New Year's, I told you. I hate everything that goes with it."

John sighed. "They're just celebrating, Sherlock."

"As I said before, what's there to celebrate?"

The soldier shrugged. "The promise of a bright tomorrow with the people they love? I dunno..." He kicked a ball of trash that had been littering the street, following it with his feet as they walked down the road. "I like celebrating it too..."

He felt Sherlock beside him stiffen a bit. Well, at least he truly hadn't forgotten. That was some sort of comfort.

"You'd celebrate anything that involved a bit of beer and laughter, John," Sherlock said with a light tone, to lighten the mood.

John looked up and smiled, blushing a bit on the inside. He kicked the piece of trash one last time before leaving it on the pavement, focusing his attention on the man next to him.

"I bet you're probably right," he said. "There isn't anything you like to celebrate, is there?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking straight ahead as they rounded the corner, their destination only a block away. In a small voice, he said, "My birthday."

John blinked, not expecting that answer. "Your birthday? You've never spoken of it before." John had even asked him when it was, but Sherlock had only shrugged it off, saying it was for him to tell and John to figure out.

He shrugged again. "It's not important enough to announce, really."

"Then why do you like celebrating it?"

"Isn't it obvious? Because its one day of the year that's supposed to be entirely devoted to me."

John rolled his eyes. He should have known that was the answer.

They were at the large house, police sirens flashing and yellow tape covering the doorway. John could see Lestrade through one of the lit windows, questioning the suspects.

As they climbed the steps of the crime scene, John asked, "When is your birthday, Sherlock?"

The man clad in gray turned to him, his hand gripped on the door handle and smiling down sadly at his best friend.

"Today."

He opened the door and went inside, not waiting for John to follow.

The doctor realized then exactly why Sherlock hated New Year's Eve.

* * *

><p><strong>Very sad, I know! Sherlock's birthday is always lumped together with New Year's, so he's never had the chance to enjoy it properly. Poor dear! D8<strong>

**Oh, and btw! I KEEP FORGETTING THIS! One of my friends, Kenzie, who has been very faithful in reading this fic, has been drawing illustrations for it! I keep forgetting to tell you though. Here is the link to the gallery I made for the pictures, and I will keep it updated as she continues to draw the scenes from this fic!**

**http:/(fowardslash)rewrittengirl(dot)deviantart(dot)com / favourites / 45684306**

**Just get rid of the foward slash, dots, and spaces, and replace them accordingly. Stupid inability to link inside a chapter! CURSE YOU fanfiction .net! XD I kid, I kid, I love you fanfiction .net.**

**As always my lovelies, read and review!**


	15. The Laws of Physics

**Title:**Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,945 words.

**Rating:** T for teen.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh)

**Warning(s):** Suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin', violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **HELLO! Missed me? Thought so. I'm sorry its taken so long, but this chapter has put me through hell and back... Okay not really. SCHOOL has put me through hell and back. Haven't had much time to write at all, in fact. I really like this chapter though, and I hope you do too. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>What they entered was a dizzying glitz of light, spurting random glitter and extravagance at them<p>

with no restraint. It was irritating how well off these folk were, with him, the bottom of the middle

class barrel (or at least he thought he was), looking up at their laughing and critical faces like he

was a lab experiment. One of Sherlock's lab experiments. And God knows how he didn't want to be one of those.

They were quietly whispering all around them as they made their way to the scene of the crime. Sherlock's smirk never faltered. John figured he probably already had the case solved just from judging by the way his eyes darted about the room, collecting data, data, and more data. John supposed that was how he saw everything, as data. Probably even the way John felt about him, and his immediate reaction to finding out it was his birthday.

"_Happy Birthday," _he'd said stupidly and pathetically in some sort of reconciliation. Sherlock had rolled his eyes, muttering idiot under his breath, like he thought he would.

Now they were questioning the owner of the diamond necklace. The woman was dressed as an obnoxious butterfly, and she'd said the jewelry was shaped as much. When he was handed the picture of it, he immediately thought how much Amy would love something like that, and stored the sight away in his head, to tell her about later. He might just find her a similar one when she grows up and give it to her for her birthday.

Oh God, growing up. Why did he bring that up in his head? He didn't even want to think about his little girl growing up, possibly taking on even _more_ traits of her father (Sherlock, not John) and making Sherlock realize there was much more to their relationship than meets the eye. And he didn't want to worry about that right now, naturally.

He sighed, not really paying attention to Sherlock's questioning, or the woman's hysterical whining. Honestly, it was just a necklace. Who cares if it was... Wait how much? Good God! No one should own a necklace that expensive! He mentally crossed out the future present for Amy, unless he could find one of much lesser value at the same beauty.

"_John? _John!" he was awakened to reality by Sherlock's snapping fingers. "Pay attention! Your observational skills are invaluable to me, even if you don't know how to use them properly."

They were semi-alone now, the woman off to cry in her rich husband's shoulder as Sherlock spun around, back turned to the annoyed John as he strode to the wall. He motioned John to follow, and he did, rather reluctantly at least. "Now, the woman said the man disappeared without a trace. They've yet to locate him throughout the house, and they've done a thorough search..." He smirked. "Supposedly. You can never trust the Yard to search high and low. They only always skim the surface."

He flipped open his magnifying glass and examined the walls nearest to where the crime was perpetrated. He felt for cracks, holes, levers, buttons, anything that could be used to gain access into the framework of the house.

"Sherlock..."

"What John? I'm busy! Perhaps you should stand here, and mimmick the criminal's movements. Yes, that's it, right here was where the woman said. Let me deduce his quickest means of escape."

"Sherlock."

"Not now John, I'm thinking!"

John rolled his eyes, pointing to a panel of the wall... A panel that had a door handle. Which he was standing right next to. He opened it up and stepped inside. "Maybe he used the door?" He said condescendingly, but warmly with a smile on his face.

Sherlock sighed, but smiled at his friend. "I told you," he said, walking toward the cleverly hidden door with the barely noticeable handle, that he'd clearly not noticed. Or did he? He often did that to make John feel better about himself. Or perhaps it was to prove a point. He suspected the latter. "You're invaluable to me."

John nodded, and followed him inside, realizing Lestrade had seen them and had called his men over to examine the door as they watched Sherlock move inside.

"The most obvious things are almost always overlooked. I'm glad you've developed the skill to observe them, John." Sherlock said, glancing around the room with a satisfied smirk on his face.

It was a bathroom. A very hidden bathroom. John could see why just from looking at it. It was the servants bathroom, cleverly hidden out of sight and out of mind. It had taken a few tries to get the door open before, and he could see why. Though that wasn't the only thing the bathroom was used for. Out of the corner of this eye, he saw a discarded box of condoms sitting on the counter, and a misplaced bra crowding the floor. He blushed, and moved away from the counter, turning toward Sherlock.

The man was staring at the shower curtain, drawn around the bathtub like a sheet over the dead.

And dead there was, lying behind it.

The blood was everywhere, and the hand hanging limply from the side behind the translucent curtain was an even more tell-tale sign of what had happened here. John stepped cautiously toward the body in the tub, and moved the curtain aside with outstretched fingers.

Silence. Then, Lestrade's booming voice outside. "Where's Hatsford? We need her to ID the man!"

Were they so sure it was the theif? He had a mask on, certainly. But it could have been any other party-goer. Couldn't it have?

If it was the thief, then where was the necklace? Who was the killer?

"That's him, officer! That's the mask! And the clothes!" She gasped quietly, burying her face in Lestrade's chest. "I've never been so humiliated in my life!"

John could feel Sherlock roll his eyes as he bent down to examine the body. "He doesn't have your precious jewelry, Mrs. Hatsford," he said with a snort.

The woman glared at him, and ripped herself from the Detective Inspector's side, favoring her glizty, high class world to the grim crime scene before them.

"Sherlock, how do you know he doesn't have the jewelry?" Lestrade asked skeptically, stepping forward some and shaking off the woman's nasally whining.

The detective was busy examining the man's fingernails, as he often did. John moved closer to examine time of death, but noticed a note sticking out of the man's breast pocket. Sherlock's body blocked everyone else's view of the body, but not John's. So he definitely wasn't imagining the paper. And he definitely wasn't imagining Sherlock's gloved fingers swiping it and sticking them in his own breast pocket.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, not ready to deal with Sherlock's secrecy by that point. He merely bent down as well, and slipped the mask carefully off the dead man's face.

He was an attractive fellow, nearing his thirties but not quite there. Had a cleft in his chin, some cuts on his left cheek seemingly taking the shape of nail marks. Perhaps an angered lover? They looked like a woman's work, but the cuts looked old, at least three days, maybe more.

"Hey, I've seen him!" Lestrade said from behind him.

"Yes, I know..." Sherlock said in his usual annoyed drone. John looked down and saw him still kneeling by the tub, now flipping through his phone at what looked like the Yard's most wanted list. He showed the screen to Lestrade in a flash, then took it back just as quickly. "Chandler Kennedy, also known as the Pyramid amongst the crime scene, reason for the nickname unknown. Taken in for jewelry theft multiple times, but there was never enough evidence against him. Brilliant stuff! He's very classy, leaves no evidence at all. Four days ago he was leaving his ex-girlfriend's penthouse after she found her precious ruby bracelet stolen right from under her nose. Won't be making the mistake of dating him again, that's for sure."

John rolled his eyes, and muttered his typical "brilliant" catchphrase he always attributed to Sherlock's clever deductions. "And how do you know about the bracelet then? The scratch marks couldn't have told you about that."

Sherlock looked at John, then smiled. "No, but his wrist could." The man held up the deceased thief's wrist, pulling up the sleeve and indicating the ruby bracelet plainly in sight.

John was confused. "But why would he wear it?"

The detective dropped the wrist with a roll of his eyes, standing up. "You mean why would he wear the bracelet he stole from his _ex-girlfriend _who clearly broke up with _him_?" The question was clearly sarcastically rhetorical. "No idea, John no idea."

He turned to walk away, and John sighed, standing up and moving after him.

"You're not going to find that necklace anywhere here, Lestrade. I doubt you'll ever be able to find it. Judging by events leading up to this night, I've deduced that the man clearly had the intention of stealing the necklace as a peace offering to this supposed missed lover, and had he remained alive, you almost certainly would have found it. In fact I am certain," Sherlock said, bounding out of the crime scene with his usual gaiety. "I'm also certain the necklace will never be seen again, at least not in whole. Whoever stole the necklace from the thief intends to dissemble it and cut the diamonds to sell it on the black market."

"How can you be sure of that?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "Why _else_ would someone murder and rob another thief of precious jewels?"

He looked at Lestrade as if he was stupid. Which he probably was, in Sherlock's eyes. Lord knows how many times Holmes had called _him _an idiot. At first it had been his default term for everyone around him (apart from his brother Mycroft), but now he seemed to only use the word idiot when concerning John, as a sort of affectionate pet name. John smiled slightly at the thought behind him, and looked away, his heart fluttering. Damn emotions. He was at a crime scene for God's sake!

"Haha, very funny Sherlock." Lestrade motioned for his men to go in and clean up inside. "Will you be wanting to see the body later?"

"Yes, at the morgue. Send the clothes by my flat, I'll need to examine them, thanks." He began to stroll off, and John took a moment to look at Lestrade and shrug before following. He saw the woman whose jewels were stolen and gave her a sympathetic look, and was sure Lestrade wasn't looking forward to explaining to her that her necklace would never be recovered.

At least it wasn't Sherlock who had to tell her. That would have ended in disaster.

* * *

><p>John fell into a quiet step next to Sherlock, the man moving at a much slower pace than usual. He'd left the case file in Lestrade's care, and held his hands behind his back, turning his riding crop slowly in them. John glanced every few minutes to them, licking his lips and realizing Sherlock was acting much stranger than he normally did. Which was even stranger in the broader scope, since the man was probably the strangest being on the entire planet.<p>

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" John asked, looking up slightly at the other man's profile, changing colors in the rainbowed night sky, the fireworks still going off overhead.

The detective's eyes flickered to John's, and he thought he saw the hint of a soft smile. "Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the case."

John stared at him in knowing incredulity. "That's not your 'thinking about a case' face."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Then what _is _my face now, then?"

The doctor shrugged, looking away and seeing the can he had kicked earlier. He kicked it again, but only once. It had had enough kickings for one day. "Its your 'thinking about feelings' face. I know it because I've only seen it a few times before." He looked back up. "Therefor, something is wrong."

Sherlock smiled again, but sadly and briefly, adjusting himself in his heavy coat and sighing, his breath coming out in a thick fog. It whipped around him, and John thought for a moment it presented a sort of glow that complimented the pale man's face perfectly. It was almost like a halo of smoke before it blew away into the night's wind. "Excellent deduction, John. You're becoming a regular me!" he said with heavy, but friendly, sarcasm.

John frowned. "Was the case not exciting enough, or something?"

Sherlock laughed, but it was empty. "No, no, it's not that. Though it was a bit dull for my tastes."

His friend raised an eyebrow. "Then why did you take it?"

"Do you really think I would turn down a case on my birthday, of all days?" Sherlock said, adding the familiar _idiot_ to the end of his sentence.

John smiled in understanding sadness. Then, his eyes displayed a questioning air. "Sherlock, how old are you today?"

"That's none of your business," he interrupted upon hearing the word "old" in his familiar cello-like drone.

John held his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay, just asking."

Sherlock sniffed. "Don't ask questions like that. It makes you look like a fool."

"You don't think me a fool?"

"... Of course not, John." He sounded muffled, like he'd barely spoken a word.

They walked in silence once more, soaking in each other's presence and the fireworks above.

After a long moment, John asked thoughtfully as he stared up at the fireworks, "What do you want for your birthday?"

John had thought it a simple question, nothing important. So he had kept walking, but after a few seconds of silence from his other side, he turned and saw that Sherlock was not there. He turned around and tried to find where the man had gone.

The detective was stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a few paces behind, where John had first asked the question. He seemed to have stopped in his tracks, and was staring at John with a furrowed brow. As the doctor walked back, he could clearly see some form of confusion on his face, though it was not the kind that usually occupied his features when disbelief settled. Normally he was confused by people's social norms, and how they did not apply to him.

Now it was a frustrated confusion, as if he couldn't believe John had asked him such a thing. Perhaps he couldn't.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you alright?" he asked.

The man blinked, and shook his head. "No, actually."

John had to blink as well. Sherlock never admitted to not being alright. His doctor's instincts tingled, and he stepped forward and touched Sherlock's arms with worry. "What's the matter?"

Sherlock looked down blankly. "You offered me a present. You don't see anything wrong with that?"

John furrowed his brow, then shook his head with an incredulous smile. "No... That's sort of... customary?"

"Then you don't want to give me a present."

"No, no Sherlock!"

"But you just said it was customary, which indicates that is normal and expected of you to give one a present on their birthday, not because you want to."

"Well, it is normal and expected, but-"

"Then we've agreed that your question was useless, correct?"

"No!"

Sherlock had steadily been trying to wriggle out of John's grasp and keep walking, managing to do so in fact. He clearly not wish to discuss this any further. "No!" he repeated, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. "Sherlock, stop!"

The rather difficult man turned on his heel, and leaned in closely to examine John. "What?"

John stumbled back, suddenly realizing how _painfully_ close Sherlock's face was from his own. He stepped back a bit, and pushed Sherlock to an upright position, smiling awkwardly. "I never said I didn't _want _to give you a present."

Sherlock blinked. "Well... Well..." He furrowed his brow, looking to his left and focusing and refocusing his eyes, as if he was trying to comprehend what John was saying. "That's... Ah... Um..."

John pursed his lips, crossing his arms and leaning on his good leg. "Shocking for you?"

The man looked down, then back up. "Yes. Ah, um..." He raised an eyebrow and pursed his own lips. "Does that mean you'll celebrate my birthday with me?"

John blinked. "Well... Yes, of course. Who said I wasn't?"

Sherlock looked up at the stars, shrugging with a bemused frown. "I dunno... The laws of physics?"

John laughed out loud, grinning cheekily and staring up at the equally tickled Sherlock. "'Suppose the laws of physics say I'm an idiot?"

"Probably."

They continued laughing, John thoroughly enjoying the smile spreading over Sherlock's face.

Now they were walking again, still smiling and laughing. John asked Sherlock again what he'd like for his birthday.

Sherlock replied that he'd like a smoke. A smoke and a pint... For old times sake.

John smiled, and dragged them both into the nearest bar, mumbling quietly under his breath.

"Happy Birthday, you old git."

* * *

><p><strong>Did you like? I hope you did. I know you were all hoping Sherlock would say "you" as a present, but that would just be too easy, wouldn't it?<strong>

**As always my lovelies, read and review! **


	16. Here, Another 'Author's' Note

**AN: I AM SO SORRY FOR ANOTHER NOTE!**

**Okay, so I've been procrastinating lately, and I really could have finished the next chapter by now, but I haven't. I HAVE A BEAUTIFUL EXPLANATION! 8D**

**Okay, so basically I've been writing another fic. Yes, ANOTHER ONE. Not Forgotten Doctor, I've actually lost my muse entirely for that one. Will you get a new chapter for that one...? Maybe, but not likely right now. My OTHER fic is as heart wrenching as that one, and actually has a similar theme, but different set up. I'm in the process of writing it BY HAND *le gasp!* and I have to type most of it up, and I'm editing it as I go along. So that's one of the reasons I haven't updated Written yet.**

**Another reason is because that roleplay site I go on (Rewritten City, if you want to check it out, just type it in google and it should be the first link. We could ALWAYS use new members, and I KNOW most of you write, so don't give me the "I can't write!" excuse. You're all brilliant.) has recently been revamped, and I had to redo most of my applications for the site (apart from Watson's, which, since he was so new a character anyway, just had to copy and paste the stuff). I'm actually still working on my Phantom of the Opera application, so there's that.**

**Hope you'll forgive me! I really hope to be done with the chapter today, because I'm BURSTING with muse for this fic, so be on the lookout, because this author's note may get replaced with the chapter today, and you may not even know it! *LE GASP! AGAIN!***

**IN THE MEANTIME while you wait so patiently, my very faithful readers and reviewers, I have a treat for you! I'm compiling a fanmix for this fanfiction, and I've come up with quite a few songs so far. Once the mix is completed, I'll compile it into a file and upload it for you all to enjoy, but I can also take suggestions! As long as they suit the mood for the fic AND the lyrics suit the fic they're eligible. And by the mood I'm going for I mean sort of easy going, singer/songwriter, quirky, yet melancholy music, which is what I'm going for with this fic. XD So basically just listen to these songs and see if you can find anything that also fits the fanmix!**

1. Giving Up-Ingrid Michaelson

2. All This Time-OneRepublic

3. Gravity-Sarah Bareilles

4. Lullabye For a Stormy Night-Vienna Teng

5. Machine Gun-Sarah Bareilles

6. Hollow-Hem

7. Love, Save The Empty-Erin McCarley

8. Gravity-Vienna Teng (yes, TWO songs named Gravity. Whaddya know.)

9. Proof-Rachel Sage

10. Hold My Heart-Sarah Bareilles

11. Nightminds-Missy Higgins

12. Show Me What I'm Looking For-Carolina Liar

13. One Sweet Love-Sarah Bareilles

**LOT OF SONGS!**** I know. There can still be more though, I'm always looking. OH AND BTW! One of these songs will ACTUALLY be used IN THE FIC. See if you can guess which one it is (though once you listen to all the songs it will be kind of obvious. xD)**

**Okay, so... **** Enjoy the music! Also, don't forget to check out Rewritten City! If you're like me, and you love classic literature, you'll enjoy it! Just tell everyone on the cbox Leffie sent you from her fanfiction, kay? They'll know what you're talking about.**

**Anyway, see you guys soon! Love you all! The next chapter is ON THE WAY!**

**-Leffie **


	17. Three Times

**Title:**Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 3,033 words.

**Rating:** T for teen.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh)

**Warning(s):** Suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin', violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **I AM SOOOOOO SORRY FOR THIS BEING SO LATE! SOOOOO SORRY! You guys probably thought I was dead! I'M SORRY! It's been a number of things: school, tech crew for the school play, and being museless. Yes, I was museless for anything Sherlock for the longest time (haven't even read much fanfiction), but I'm back and better than ever! Hopefully! This chapter was longer than I anticipated! Yaaaaay! I hope you enjoy it (in fact I know you will). I promise to have the next one out as soon as I can!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusual flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>John hadn't really thought about what Sherlock would look like if he took a drag of a cigarette.<p>

Now he need not wonder in the future, but still, he was rather awestruck at the sight, and made a note in his brain never to let the detective smoke again.

Not because it was unhealthy... well, okay, yes that was a reason, but also because the image was _nearly_ to difficult for John to bear.

How can _one _man look so downright _gorgeous, stunning, and utterly captivating _while inhaling toxic air into his lungs?

Now it was becoming unhealthy for _John_ to cope, and it was only when he received second hand smoke from that blasted cigarette that he was brought down from the clouds, Sherlock blowing a ring in his face and laughing at him, like some sideshow attraction.

John waved his hand in front of his face and coughed. "Stop that."

He felt himself blush. Good God, now he would be the subject of teasing and ridicule from the man by his side.

Sherlock continued to laugh, as he expected he would. "You're rather funny when you're embarrassed, John. Be embarrassed more often."

John planted a palm across his forehead in frustration. "No one _wants _to be embarrassed, Sherlock." Especially someone like him with a two year long streak of constantly being so, by none other than his best mate.

"I know," he said with his usual haughty arrogance. He turned to face the telly, instead of John. It was an old football game, so he doubted Sherlock was really watching it.

He turned away as well, and sipped his beer quietly, staring at the screen. He wasn't really processing it either, but he was actually fully aware of the man by his side. He noticed every movement Sherlock made from the corner of his eye, and it fascinated him how the detective could smoke and drink and look so natural while doing it, even though he hadn't done either since the day that the two had met for the first time, or at least so John thought.

"You know, as your doctor, it's probably not a good idea for me to condone this behavior."

"As my doctor, you might say that."

Insufferable git, that's what Sherlock was. And as his doctor, John really shouldn't have obliged him. Healthy or not, however, he rather wanted to make the man happy. Not at any cost, by no means. Just relatively happy on his birthday. He had the mind to ask him his age again, but decided against it, not wanting to further the battle he'd already lost.

"Sherlock," John began. "May I ask what it is about your birthday that bothers you? Apart from it being on New Year's, of course..." He mumbled the last bit, shrugging and feeling foolish he'd brought it up. As always, Sherlock and feelings did not mix.

He saw Sherlock roll his eyes, and they turned back to each other again. "You and your questions. Your ridiculous questions."

"Oi! They're legitimate questions, thank you very much!" he retorted, but he smiled anyway. He rather liked smiling, especially when he made Sherlock do the same.

"Hmm... If you say so," Sherlock huffed, puffing out a bit of smoke, suddenly coughing up a storm. John rolled his eyes, wanting to rip the deadly tobacco from his hand, but instead took the condescending route.

"I told you, if you start smoking again it's not going to go well..." He shrugged, taking a sip of his beer and staring off, his eyes landing on the telly again. "And you still haven't answered my question."

Sherlock pounded at his chest, gasping for air. "God, breathing's superfluous..." he muttered, finally catching his breath. "Who says I want to answer? You of all people should know I never do things I find unnecessary to do. This is obviously one of them."

John sighed, knowing his cause was useless and dead. He raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay, I give up. It's your birthday, so I'm not gonna drill you..." he began, pausing to look at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "But it'd be nice if you did answer. Kind, even."

When Sherlock looked at him over the mug of his own glass of beer (his first sip, and John only now realized he'd probably wanted a different drink, even though he hadn't stopped John from ordering; he just looked so wrong, Sherlock Holmes sipping from a pint of beer) with a harsh glare, John backed off. "It was just a suggestion," he mumbled, burying himself in his own drink, which was already two-thirds gone.

They sat in silence for a while after that. John took a moment to assess their situation.

Sherlock and John were in a bar together, drinking.

His eyes narrowed, and he suddenly realized that by being here, they were setting themselves up for the same scenario all over again. The same one that... Well, he didn't have to remind himself, honestly.

Surely Sherlock must have known what might happen, which is why he'd objected earlier to the celebratory can of beer. If he had (and he had) then why would he suggest such a request for his birthday present?

John really did hope beyond hope that something would finally, _finally _happen between them that night. He hoped like there was actually a chance, however he soon became acutely aware of his ridiculous need, desire, what have you, to pull Sherlock into an embrace and _kiss_ him! Imagine that!

But he couldn't. If D.r John Watson was anything, he was first and foremost a gentleman. There were two reasons why this applied. Firstly that John was steadily becoming a wild animal (read: cackling drunkard) so he was not quite right in his senses, and would therefore be in a position where rational decision making would be impossible.

Secondly, he'd made a promise to Sherlock two years ago. If he broke that promise now, he might just have to go chasing the detective from another random rooftop again. Heaven knows he didn't want to do _that._

Those were two very satisfying reasons.

Good God, where had this drunken logic been the night when he and Sherlock met?

"You don't hold your liquor very well, do you John?" Sherlock suddenly said.

John blinked, a bit startled from being woken from his buzzed daydreams. "Uh, no... No I don't," he slurred.

Sherlock chuckled, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray in front of him.

His friend rolled his eyes. "And that's soooo very funny. Well, I know _you _don't hold your liquor well either, Mr. 'I'm so much better than you.' Judging by the last time and the fact that you normally _detest_ alcohol, ya know," he stated intelligently. It wasn't so much his thought process that was affected by the drink but his actions, as he was barely hanging off his chair, pointing a lazy and drunken finger at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and took another sip of beer. "You have no idea how well I keep my liquor, John."

Watson shrugged. Him and his fancy words. "Whatever..." he mumbled. He was beginning to grow frustrated with Holmes, something he often did, but he usually was able to keep his cool. "If it's your birthday, is this really how you want to celebrate? Sitting in a pub with me?"

"Well you are my best friend."

John blinked. "Well, yeah..." he hadn't even thought about that. He figured Sherlock might just be doing this to torment him... but was he really just wanting to spend time with him? "Just, uh... Promise me you won't make a habit of the smoking again, will you?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He took that as a yes.

He nodded, then. "Right, well..."

Awkward silence.

That was beginning to become normal between them, the awkward silence.

"Would you like another beer, John?"

John looked down at the now empty glass, and realized it had indeed been Sherlock who had asked the question. Sherlock, whose own glass had been been sipped slowly and was still pretty full.

"'S that still your first glass?" John slurred.

The man nodded stiffly, taking another taunting sip whilst staring blankly at the television screen.

"Then how is this a present, if you're not gonna even drink it?" John accused, his voice raising in pitch slightly, ending in a hiccup.

Sherlock ignored his question. "On a scale of one to ten, how drunk would you say you are?"

John blinked. "Uh... Hnn... I-I dunno..." he muttered, shrugging. He hiccuped again.

Sherlock smirked, chuckling softly. "Have another, and this one's on me, okay?"

John was confused. That could have been from the drink, or just his natural skepticism around Sherlock, but nevertheless, he was incredibly confused. "O-Okay..."

He didn't even have to ask, as the bartender had given him another glass already.

This glass developed into another.

And then another.

* * *

><p>John was now wasted two hours later, with no one but the incredibly <em>not <em>drunk, but calm and collected Sherlock to take care of him, whose original drink was now completely warm and had barely been consumed in favor of the empty cigarette package lying next to it, ashtray full.

"I'd say ten now," the taller man muttered, the army doctor slumped against their shoulder in their booth, one they'd migrated to over the course of the evening.

"I told you I don't like beer..." he whispered. John was half asleep, barely coherent, but he grunted some form of reply as his lazy and drunken hand came up to his face to rub his nose. His eyes were closed, arm he leaned against the man's arm.

Sherlock smiled, but it was awkward and almost forced. A blink later and it was gone, but his eyes weren't through searching for something to say.

"I... I don't like my birthday because it reminds me how I'm another year older, and... another year alone."

He scratched at the already rough table with his nail, tracing lines that in his minds formed the equation for a chemical combustion, but to anyone else would just be lines.

"It's fine, really, the being alone part of my life. It suits me. I mean, I'm not really alone, I have... friends, like you, and Mrs. Hudson, and God, I should probably call even Lestrade a friend. But I'm alone in the sense that there's no one like me in the world, and no one gets me. Silly, I know. Childish even, to feel this way. That's why I believe feelings are overrated."

Sherlock placed an arm around John when he began to slide into his lap in a drunken sleep, just to steady him. "It's fine though, that no one gets me. I don't expect them to, with their little brains and their funny way of doing things. It's all fine, I know."

He looked away from the mess of John's head, resting against his chest. He swallowed hard, and tapped a rhythm on the table where he'd sketched out the equation. "I realized it a long time ago, that I'd always be alone."

He looked down again, and smiled. "And now here you are."

His smile faded. His eyes were dark and he could barely breathe, thanks to the words coming out of his mouth. "You-you're really one in a million, John Watson," he laughed breathlessly. "And that's really not much considering how many people there are in the world. Its a rather untrue statement considering you're a very average man. So, I suppose I should amend my statement..." he added, resting his head on his knuckles as he looked down at the sleeping doctor, his elbow sitting on the table.

"You're one in six billion. You're the only person in the world who I trust with my entire being. You're unlike any person I've ever encountered and yet..." he paused. "So similar to them all."

There was always the chance that John could hear this, always the chance that he could remember. But Sherlock Holmes was a careful man, and he knew John would never recall this moment, and if he did, it would be long down the line of their time together, and then maybe Sherlock would be ready to deal with his... feelings.

"I... I love you."

John's eyes fluttered open, and Sherlock turned a stark shade of crimson red. He sat stick straight against the seat as John moved out of his grasp groggily, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock removed his hand from behind John's back and grabbed the warm glass of beer sitting on the table, where he'd left it for the past hour. He took a large gulp, and didn't dare look at John until he was sure the man wasn't angry with him for being so forward.

He didn't seem to be, and instead of saying anything to counter his statement, he leaned back and again placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes and going back to sleep.

"I love you, too..." he muttered as he drifted off again after being woken by a glorious explosion of sound that was something just like "I love you."

Sherlock was silent and frozen in time. He was stuck between wanting to put his arm around John again and running for the door.

Was there no middle ground?

"Oi! You and your boyfriend are gonna have to split, I'm closing in five."

It was a busboy, the last person in the bar besides the two of them.

"H-he's not my boyfriend! He's just a colleague, a friend..." Sherlock challenged. His eyes were as wide as a doe in fright. It was the word boyfriend more than anything else.

The busboy rolled his eyes. "I don't care whether you're shagging him or taking him out for ice cream, I said get going!"

Holmes glared at him as he began to slide out of the booth, tugging on John's jacket to wake him up. "Come on, John," he whispered close to his ear. He felt dangerous and scandalous, much like the night when the two of them had met.

He helped the sleepy and drunk man to his feet, and flung a few bills on the table to cover the costs. He helped John out of the bar, thankful the night air woke him up a bit so that he was able to walk properly.

Sherlock kept his arm around John the whole way home, for warmth and for comfort. His heart was pounding, not from the drink (there was hardly any of that), or from John's proximity, but from the adrenaline confessing his love had given him.

But he knew he was still a coward, making John drunk enough so he would never remember the words he'd only spoken once in his life.

He said this aloud, and suddenly John mumbled a reply. "Three... three times."

Sherlock blinked, and stopped. He turned to John, and looked down at him, seeing the man's bright blue eyes being lit up by the fireworks still going on overhead. "What?" he said, holding his arms to steady him.

"Three times. You've said I love you to me three times." John smiled sheepishly and drunkenly, and tried to stumble out of Sherlock's grasp to head home, as if this sort of conversation was normal for them.

"Three? I... I've never said those words in my life, to anyone!" Sherlock accused, going after him.

John nodded to the ground, staggering back into Sherlock's grip. "Mmm... You said it after we made love, and once when you were holding Amy and fast asleep, after that bad date of mine, I remember."

Sherlock frowned, turning the man to face him, forcing his eyes open before he collapsed right there on the sidewalk. "You remember that, and you couldn't remember the first time we met for over a year?"

John chuckled, and fell against Sherlock's chest. He was asleep.

Sherlock groaned, and hailed a nearby cab. He piled John into it and closed the door, ordering the driver to 221b Baker Street.

When they were home, Sherlock carried John up the stairs, bridal style ("ha ha, very funny" he said to himself) and laid him on the couch, not wanting to put him in his bedroom. He covered him up neatly and sighed.

Dolores was probably downstairs in her room, sleeping. He wouldn't have to worry about her barging in tonight.

Sherlock turned, feeling suddenly tired himself (a rarity, to be sure). He headed toward his room when he felt a hand reach for his and stop him. "Don't go..." the voice attached to it said. "Not before you kiss me g'night."

Sherlock felt his blush before seeing it in the reflection of the window. He looked down at John, still half asleep, and slowly falling into a deeper dream.

He was just drunk, he was half asleep. He wouldn't remember. Go on, Sherlock, kiss him, before you regret it. Kiss him and make the noise fade away into the background, just this once.

_It's all fine._

_I know its fine._

"I... I know."

Asleep. He'd waited too long. Or had he?

He decided he hadn't, and bent down and kissed John's lips with as much swiftness as possible, pulling back when he'd felt dangerous enough. These feelings were dangerous creatures.

He felt the lips press against his again. His heart was pounding as he realized John had initiated it, and it was only a few moments later, stock still and barely breathing, that he also realized John had been asleep doing it.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and touched his still pinkish lips. They were warm, and had John on them. They'd had John's lips on them, and he wanted them on them again.

_Dangerous, Sherlock, dangerous!  
><em>

He didn't care. He leaned forward to do it again, and as the lips tou-

_Beeeeeep. Beeeeeep. BEEP._

A message. He convulsed as he moved back, back into his chair, away from the sleeping John.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket hurriedly, wanting to throw the thing across the room.

A single message from an unknown number.

_He's _still _lying to you._

* * *

><p><strong>DUN DUN DUUUUN! Yes, Moriarty is still harrassing Sherlock! Why has he not done anything particularly open about his taunting, like actual confront the man? The answer issss... I'm not telling you. xD You have to wait for it yourself! Otherwise where would the surprise be!<strong>

**This chapter really was hard to write, as I had no IDEA where I wanted to go with it. What you see is what flew out of my fingertips in a fit of musey passion. Yes, musey is a word now, because I say so. :|**

**So, sit tight and wait for the next chapter! I may finally get the next chapter of Come Home out in the meantime, so look out for that! Remember that one is a much shorter fic than this one.**

**As always, read and review my lovelies! **


	18. Manipulation

**Title:**Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,306 words.

**Rating:** T for teen.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh)

**Warning(s):** Suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin', violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes: **I am SOOOOOO sorry for posting the same chapter twice guys! I had finished the chapter this morning before I went to school, and I found out by checking my email soon after that I'd accidentally posted it twice! I'm sorry! I couldn't change it at school, so I'm really sorry you had to wait so long. It's my mistake guys, and it won't happen again. Regarding the chapter, I'm also sorry about the wait for this too. Expect about a month or so in between each chapter from now on, guys. I'm just so busy! T.T Well, I really hope you like the chapter you had to wait for even though I know how excited you guys were to see an update. Now its the REAL thing! ^^

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusual flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>The next morning, John woke up with a splitting headache, and no recollection of the night before.<p>

_'Great... Just... perfect,'_ he thought as he rolled on the couch into a sitting position, rotating his neck trying to work the kinks out of it. He swung his legs over the side, then stretched and yawned, but found both these actions induced pounding rhythms in his head, and thought it best to cease them immediately.

"Morning."

It was Sherlock who spoke, as he placed a fresh cup of tea in front of John on the coffee table. He could smell that it was just right, but before he could even thank Sherlock, the detective had strolled away, into the kitchen and shut the door.

John looked at the cup, then back at the closed kitchen door, then back down to the cup. "Wh-what?" he said quietly, scratching his head and looking up at the ceiling. "What's gotten into him?" he muttered. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, reaching for the teacup and realizing it was _his_ cup. The shattered one that he'd broken again the day Sherlock had tried to commit suicide.

When Sherlock had found it in a million pieces again, he went straight to fixing it up. He never liked to be the cause of misfortune to John, only to other people.

The cup was getting worn out from being broken so many times. He'd have to replace it soon.

As he was about to take his first sip, his daughter came bounding up the stairs.

"Dad, Dad!" she exclaimed, dressed in a wintery navy jumper and dark pants, a large dark blue bow holding back her hair. She ran straight to him and into his arms, holding a letter and shoving it in his face. His tea nearly spilled over before he was able to set it down.

"Look at this! You have a letter! Look how pretty it is!" she said. The little girl was beaming from ear to ear.

John took the letter skeptically, scratching his head at the fancy and detailed paper. It was indeed addressed to him, but also Sherlock, as if they were a married couple or something.

He mentally rolled his eyes. _'That'd be the day...'_ he thought bitterly as he reached for the discarded letter opener on the coffee table, setting his daughter to his side and ripping the envelope open carefully.

"What's it say, Dad, what's it say?" Amy said excitedly. She was peering over his shoulder, begging to know what the letter was for.

"Hang on, gimme a minute!" he said as he pulled the card-stock out of its container, smiling at her and unfolding the black and white stationary. A small paper fell out from between the flaps, and he saw that one was addressed to Sherlock. The card had his name on top. He read it aloud:

_You are cordially invited to attend_

_the 30th Birthday celebration of_

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes, prepared by his_

_brother Mycroft and his mother Violet_

_at the Holmes estate..._

The grin plastered on John's face was spread wide and his voice trailed as he laughed out loud. Leave it to Mycroft to intrude on Sherlock's brooding. He should have known the older Holmes would attempt something like this eventually. And look, he even found out how old Sherlock was in the process!

"What is it Dad?"

"It's an invitation, darling, to-"

The kitchen doors slammed open with a bang, and the imposing figure of Sherlock Holmes stood seething, hands spread over the glass of the doors where he'd thrown them open.

"That. Bastard."

His death glare was focused on the invitation in John's hands.

"Sherlock, language!" John said, attempting to cover Amy's ears. He had been busy opening the small note addressed to Sherlock that had tumbled out, and briefly glanced at it before focusing his attention on his best friend.

_Do be a dear and make Mummy proud._

_-MH_

"That... LUNATIC!"

It took Sherlock two strides and a leap over the coffee table and the invitation was ripped from John's hands, the note as well. Sherlock was visibly shaking.

"John, you are not under any circumstances to attend this... TRIPE!"

A large rip penetrated the card and note in one, and a satisfied smirk graced the man's lips.

"Sherlock, come on. Be reasonable!" John glared as the pieces fell to the ground at Sherlock's feet as the man stepped back over the coffee table, attempting to go back to the kitchen.

He stopped in the middle of the room, turning. "Oh? Be reasonable to the man who is the very bane of my existence? No thank you."

John rolled his eyes and stood up, motioning for Amy to stay put. "He's your brother, trying to get you to actually celebrate your birthday. What's so wrong with that?"

"It's Uncle Sherlock's birthday?" the little girl piped up from behind.

"Not now, Dolores!" Sherlock snapped, pacing in the middle of the room. John felt immediately that they'd be getting into a row this morning, whether he liked it or not. And God, he did _not_ need that on top of his splitting headache.

"Hey, don't talk to my daughter that way!" John defended, hovering over the girl in a protective fashion.

"John, Mycroft has been trying to get me to celebrate my birthday for years," Sherlock said, ignoring his accusation completely.

"And for good reason, it's your birthday!"

"It is mine to celebrate or not to celebrate, however I want," he said, his eyes narrowing. He stepped forward, and John thought he detected a small smile from the man, but it was gone too fast for him to be sure. "Besides, I already celebrated my birthday with you, John."

John's brow furrowed. "I know..." he muttered. "Or rather I don't know, since I can't remember anything from last night."

Sherlock was silent, and after a moment, he huffed, and resumed his pacing. "Nevertheless, you're not to go."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "And what if I make YOU go?" he challenged, crossing his arms and walking around the coffee table to stop the man from burning a hole in their rug. He turned slightly to wink at Amy.

Sherlock stopped again, facing John full on. "You can't make me go, John, I'm completely in control of my life, unlike you."

"Unlike me? What's that supposed to mean?" he shouted. He could feel his daughter curling up into a ball at her parents fighting. Not that she knew that Sherlock was her father, but John knew, and it hurt even worse.  
>Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed at John's stupidity. John wasn't stupid! He was just tired of Sherlock's overbearing attitude over him. "You obviously are inept enough to get yourself drunk. If you hadn't been with me, who knows what could have happened to you last night? You obviously have no regard for your own well being."<p>

John's gaze turned steely. "Amelia, go to your room, Uncle Sherlock and I need to speak with each other. Privately."

When the girl was gone (not without reserve), John, who had been shaking with anger for quite some time, strode directly up to Sherlock and pushed him as hard as he could in the chest. "WHO has no regard for their well being? Who's the one who would have become a complete insomniac, if not for me? Who never eats unless I tell him to? Who doesn't speak for days on end unless I engage him in conversation? Who SAVES HIS LIFE when he's putting himself in danger on a case, or when he's contemplating jumping off a damn building just because he was starting to fall in love with me?"

His nostrils flared, and he thought he might just die from the fury radiating in his chest.

Sherlock was silent again, and that made John even angrier. He stared down at him with those goddamn permanently frozen eyes. They were incredibly close, and John thought he could feel the taller man's heart beating just as loudly as his own, but that was just his imagination, obviously.

"I do believe I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. It is you who sees the need to constantly fret over my very exist," Sherlock snapped. "Are you still in love with me, or have you become my mother?"

A slap.

The hand that had made contact with the face was shaking with fury. The face that had been slapped was twisted into a harsh scowl, Sherlock's hand clutching at his reddening cheek.

John's arm lowered. "If you think that worrying about you is cause for insulting me, you've got another thing coming, Sherlock."

Sherlock's entire posture transformed into a ferocious lion, his back taunt and his own hand lowering. His eyes were narrowed to the point where they were as focused as a cat's eye, observing and criticizing John's every move. "If you think slapping me will change my ways John, then YOU have another thing coming."

John's fists clenched and re-clenched, and his body was mad with tremors. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, knowing his jumbled mess of thoughts would be impossible to put to words. He turned to leave, but turned back, then turned again, then turned back. "You-"

A pause.

"No, just, just no."

Now he was turning. Now he was leaving. His body was stiff, from both his hangover and his rage. "John, don't," he heard from behind him.

"Don't what?" he shouted, turning around and glaring at him. "It's obvious you've finally grown bored with me. I think it's finally time for me to stop being so _goddamn pig-headed_ and move out! You're a terrible influence on Dolores, and keeping up with your asinine attitude is dangerous to my health! I'm not young like you, Sherlock. I'm not _thirty_! You seem to think that you've got everyone wrapped around your finger, well you don't. You're not the END ALL AND BE ALL of the universe! 'Oh, I'm Sherlock Holmes, and everyone bows to my whims!' Ha! You can't even get it through your thick skull how much I bloody well care about you! This isn't a game, Sherlock. Real life is real life, not manipulation. I don't care how badly you hate your birthday or your brother, but you ARE going to that party. If not, then this _will_ be the last time you EVER see me again. It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing Sherlo-"

A kiss.

John's eyes closed. The grip on his arm was bearable, but the warning bells going off inside his head was enough to make him collapse. It wasn't a pleasant kiss, nor was it loving. It was cold and rigid, but passion filled its every pore. John wretched the arm in Sherlock's grasp away and wrapped both around his neck, crushing him further into the kiss.

_'You're not about to get away from me,_' he thought.

Sherlock squirmed in his arms, but slowly put his own around John's back, and John could tell that it wasn't just him who was shaking.

John, slowly but surely, divided his lips and tried to do the same to Sherlock's. But in a split second the detective pulled away, letting go of John and staring down at him straight in the eyes.

"Is that enough to make you stay?"

There was no sense of love or longing in his voice. He was like a machine, a great, groundbreaking machine.

The doctor blinked. Some form of bile arose in his throat at the utter hatred he felt toward his longtime friend. He turned away, and instead of heading out the door, Holmes got precisely what he wanted, as John headed to the kitchen to make tea for them all.

"I hate you," he muttered, and he heard Sherlock slam his bedroom door. He suspected he wouldn't return from it for quite some time.

The tea was awful that day for John. It tasted like tears.

* * *

><p>The room was spinning.<p>

Not that it was actually spinning, but Sherlock felt like it was. He couldn't stop shaking, either way. He slid down his door, and pressed a hand to his mouth. The tears were bothersome, just as they'd been the last time he cried, two years ago.

He wouldn't allow John to leave him. Nor would he ever tell him of his feelings, in any case. John now saw that kiss as something Sherlock had used to get his way. And in a way, it was. In a way, he also just wanted to kiss him.

Kissing was a ridiculous concept. Pressing mouths together like barbarians in some primal need of sexual release, that's what it was. Who knows how many infectious diseases are transfered between people like that (397... roughly)? It wasn't something that should interest _Sherlock_ of all people.

But now he'd gone and kissed John three... no wait... six... six times. There were the times before, when they'd... And he'd kissed him all over his body, but those didn't count. Just on the lips. Six.

It was six. Six was far too great a number for kissing.

He couldn't do it again. He wouldn't, he just... couldn't. He couldn't love John like that anymore, it was so very _dangerous_ to his health. John was dangerous.

After a good long while, Sherlock had calmed down. Now he was fine, now he was graceful. He slid back up the door and pulled out his cellphone, anxious to get this over with. One singular text to his brother was all that was needed.

_'We're coming.'_

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><p><strong>Ooooh! Betcha didn't see THAT coming. I know exactly what you were thinking (ie: "OMFGOMFGOMFGOMFG THEY KISSED aaaaaaaaand John think's he's being a douche, and Sherlock goes along with it. *sigh*"). XDDD How I do so love to torture you. I wish we could give our boys a happy ending, and I was tempted to, but then I was like "... Nah."<strong>

**As always, guys, Read and Review! **


	19. Until Your Frightened Eyes Do Close

**Title:**Written in the Stars

**Author:**Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:**Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 3,053 words.

**Rating:**T for teen.

**Characters:**Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s)**: Shwatsonlock (duh)

**Warning(s):**Suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin', violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

**Contains:**In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:**Words cannot express to you how much I wanted to finish this chapter before now. But alas, school and everything else in life, like Christmas, caused me to neglect it until now. BUT HAHA! I'M HERE NOW. And Oh. My. Fucking. God. Who, who has read this fic, when they watched the Reichenbach Fall, thought IMMEDIATELY of chapter 14? Oh my god, I about died. The fact that I PREDICTED Sherlock would somehow be ontop of a roof contemplating suicide (for albeit different reasons) scares the shit outta me. But GUESS WHO'S GOING TO MAKE FANVIDS FOR THIS FIC WITH THAT SCENE ONCE SHE GETS SONY VEGAS? *this girl* Btw, if any of you also like Phantom of the Opera, I actually created my own Phantom roleplay forum, that incorperates all versions as well as OCs. Check it out! http: / phantommanor . proboards . com (without spaces).

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary:** What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusual flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood in front of the mirror. He wasn't vain, or anything, he was just curious. Curious to see how he looked, perhaps to observe his attitude at such a critical time in his life. Perhaps... just to impress John...<p>

No, not to impress John. John was easily impressed. He didn't have to try hard at all, just a smile here, and a gesture there. That was sure to set his friends loins on fire.

Holmes rolled his eyes and smoothed the collar of his shirt. The tie was irritating, constraining and vile, one of the most despicable pieces of clothing ever invented. He couldn't understand _why_ John was forcing him to wear one. It was_ his_ party, after all.

"Party... What's the point in having a party when there's nothing to celebrate?" he mumbled. "No point at all, just an excuse for the grotesquely bombastic human race to gossip and fodder all over the place like common animals."

Sherlock wouldn't normally be so enthusiastic to miss this particular event. In fact, it might even give him the chance to upstage his brother in something by playing along. But there was one person in the entire universe that he aimed to please by going, and pleasing him hurt Sherlock so terribly much. Pleasing him made him smile, and the feelings just shouldn't last. They were dangerous and thieving, like Moriarty and his damned text messages.

But truly, the real question was what the actual fuck was John Watson still doing in his life?

Tonight was the night. There was really no point in moving forward. Sherlock's entire life was spiraling downhill fast, and the genius saw no other alternative. It was a simple solution, but he dreaded the awful _pain_ it would bring on. The pain it would bring John, John's daughter, and Sherlock himself, all in one.

He combed his hair slowly and deliberately. His face was still, and he was quite calm by any normal standards (which never applied to the certified genius). Perhaps he'd adopted John's ability to remain calm in stressful situations.

Sherlock's hands were steady as he set the comb down and gave one last glance into the mirror before leaving the reflection of regret behind.

He gradually put on his new coat, a black formal that John insisted he buy with his brother's money. His reason was that it might make him feel better to swindle Mycroft blind with the expensive piece of clothing, to get back at him for planning this party without Sherlock's knowledge, but it just added more weight to the already overwhelming abuse his heart was receiving from this.

"John!" he called to pull himself out of his dreams. "John, are you ready?"

There was no sound in the flat save for his breathing. "Joooohn?" he yelled, moving toward the stairs up to the doctor's room. Still no sound.

"He's downstairs, deary, with Amy," he suddenly heard Mrs. Hudson behind them. "Telling her goodbye, I think. Isn't he just the sweetest father you could imagine?" she said as she set bags of groceries on the desk, afraid to step into the kitchen for fear of contaminating the eggs.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said absently as he made his way down the stairs.

"Just this once, sweetheart, I'm not your housekeeper!"

He ignored her and traversed the flights of steps to arrive at Dolores's door.

"J-" he started, his knuckles pressed to the door as if to knock. But then he heard Dolores's voice.

"Dad, I don't want you to go! Uncle Sherlock doesn't even want to go, and I have a baaaaad feeling."

John chuckled, and Sherlock, intrigued, opened the door a slight crack to peer inside, making sure he couldn't be seen. Watson was seated with his back facing Sherlock, his hands outstretched to tuck the sleepy child in bed. "What sort of bad feeling?"

"I dunno..." she shrugged. "Like you and Uncle Sherlock are going to fight again."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he huffed silently. _'It seems to be the only thing we do anymore...'_

"Darling, parents fight all the time, why should best friends be any different, hmm?"

"Well... because I love you, and I love Uncle Sherlock. And I always feel like it's about me..."

John seemed shocked, and pulled back. Sherlock was shocked, and his head slumped quietly against the door frame. _She loves me..._

"How is it about you?"

The girl looked inexplicably sad. "I'm always sent away whenever you guys start talking."

John sighed. "Awh, sweetheart, it's not about you. There's just some things that need to be said privately, that's all." He stroked her hair, and Sherlock thought he detected a smile. "Don't worry about it. Now I have to go, or else we're going to be late."

Dolores grabbed her father's arm frantically while he was turning away. "Wait! Dad will you sing to me?"

"Sing?" he asked.

She nodded eagerly and grinned. "Our song? Please? Please please pleeeeeeeease?"

"Oh..." John mused. "I guess a few bars should put you to sleep. Commere..."

It was then that John turned and sat with his back to the mahogany headboard. Now Sherlock saw his flatmate as radiant as he should be. He was dashingly handsome by anyone's standards in his new suit. Sherlock had stipulated that if he was to wear a tie and that new coat, John was to allow him to buy his friend a new suit, since all his others were mismatched and worn. He'd gotten away with it by saying it was Mycroft's treat.

Sherlock was brought from his musings to the real world when John began singing. Dolores was wrapped in his black clad arms as he rocked her to and fro.

_"Little child, be not afraid, the rain pounds harsh against the grass like an unwanted stranger, there is no danger, I'm here tonight," the song went._

John had been unwanted. He hadn't needed John for anything, until he became his only friend. Now his entire life seemed to revolve around him, from John being his assistant at crime scenes to sitting next to him night, the sound of John eating while he clicked away on the laptop, not hungry and bored with the crap telly playing on the screen. John was comfort. But then... Then they both had to get their feelings involved. There was definitely danger in that.

_"Little child, be not afraid, though thunder explodes and lightning flash illuminates your tear stained face, I'm here tonight."_

The song was their song, and Sherlock deduced the lyrics pointed to Dolores being dreadfully afraid of nighttime thunderstorms, and perhaps had arisen from John's repertoire of music (however pathetically small it may have been) when she'd come crying to him on a stormy night. The girl's lids were already droopy, but she was still coherent enough to listen. John's singing voice was pleasant, but he was no Pavoratti. Sherlock enjoyed it as much as Dolores did. He wanted to hold that voice in his mind forever, to sing him to sleep when he would be afraid in the future, if that ever happened.

But it was happening now. Sherlock was afraid of losing John, as he would that night.

_"And someday you'll know, that nature is so, the same rain that draws you near me falls on rivers and land, and forests and sand, makes the beautiful world that you see, in the morning."_

The song continued for a while, and Sherlock just sat listening. The tune was familiar. Had he heard it in a dream? Had he remembered it from the radio? Had his mother sung it to him before she thought to leave him in Mycroft's care? Had John... Had John sung it to him? Whatever the case may be, he found himself mouthing the words along.

_"Little child, be not afraid, though storm clouds mask your beloved moon, and its candlelight beams, still keep pleasant dreams, I'm here tonight."_

_Don't be afraid, Sherlock. Don't be afraid of him. Don't be afraid of losing him. You're doing the right thing. You'd only ever have him in your dreams._

In his dreams... But he had had him once, he remembered full well what it was like. He may have been drunk, but his memory was impeccable. John once asked him why he hadn't deleted the night they'd met from his mind. He'd lied, uncaring what the lie stated. The reason he hadn't, truly, because, in truth, in truth... Sherlock had truly truly...

_"For you know, once even I was a little child, and I was afraid, but a gentle someone always came to dry all my tears, trade sweet sleep with fears and to give a kiss goodnight."_

A memory...

Some sort of memory, or a figment? An imaginary John, kissing his head...? Sherlock remembered the way his curls crushed against his soldier's lips, their softness bouncing him back. He remembered he'd felt him smile, and he remembered what he himself had said. Something akin to... something akin to...

Had anyone ever kissed Sherlock goodnight before that memory?

_"Well now I am grown, and these years have shown that rain's a part of how life goes, but its dark and its late so I'll hold you and wait, until your frightened eyes do close."_

Sherlock's eyes closed, and his eyes rained, slowly, like an April shower. _Hold me, John... Hold me so that the bad dreams go away, and then there's only you, and I won't have to do this terrible thing that you're forcing me to do._ His mouth still sang the words silently, but the lips were coated with tears. Tears that haven't come in two years.

_"And I hope that you'll know, that nature is so, the same rain that draws you near me falls on rivers and land, and forests and sand, makes the beautiful world that you see, in the morning."_

Dolores joined in during this last verse, having committed the words to her heart memory. They repeated a verse from the beginning, and Sherlock, opening his eyes, now wished he could join John in holding the girl, and rock her to sleep himself.

Suddenly, as her eyes began to clasp shut in exhaustion, Dolores glanced at him, and smiled. She sang along still, but finally, for once in the portion of his life that he knew her, Sherlock really looked at her. In that split second with them locking eyes, hers shone with more blue, gray and green than the spectrum of light colored irises could possibly allow, and she really looked into his own. She saw him, like a child sees its mother for the first time. Like he was her whole world.

_"Everything's fine in the morning."_

And she loved him.

_"The rain'll be gone in the morning."_

He loved her.

_"But... I'll still be here, in the morning..."_

She was his... whole...

"Goodnight, sweetheart," John said quietly. The song was gone, and he kissed her soft curly hair, like a memory. He pried himself away and smoothed the arm of her nightgown, clicking off the butterfly lamp on the nightstand and moving away.

Sherlock stepped away from the door and knocked, as if arriving just at that moment.

"Ah! John, just in time. I think the car will be here momentarily. Won't you join me?" The tears were dried miraculously, and only those who had watched him a few moments before would notice the difference.

John, whose face had previously been soft and caring, was stunned and morphed into a glare. "Sherlock, were you listening?"

Yes, yes of course he was. "Oh, was that you?" he began while laughing. Sherlock spun on his heel, his black coat billowing behind him as he ran up the stairs. "I thought it was a dying cat!"

John growled and raced after the man, but in jest. They grinned together for a moment when the reached the top of the stairs.

Sherlock wished the grin could last. However, he heard the car honk, and he remembered himself. His face went flat, and he looked away from John's glittering features to the door, opening it and stepping out into the cold snow. "John?" he said, looking back at him when he realized he hadn't followed.

"Are you leaving, or staying?"

* * *

><p><em>"Are you leaving, or staying?"<em>

John stood there for a moment. Never were words more true than those. He wished Sherlock was aware of how seriously appropriate they were to describe his feelings at that moment. Hell, he probably was. But he had been trying to think of the right words himself, so he mentally thanked Sherlock for providing them.

_'I want to stay, Sherlock...'_ he thought. _'But I can't stay... Not like this.'_

The man had steadily been breaking his heart, piece by piece. Soon there'd be nothing left.

Thousands of thoughts were running through John's head at that moment, all at the same time. Time, it seemed, had frozen within him, and he felt every thought simultaneously.

He thought about Dolores, asleep in her bed. How beautiful she was by moonlight, just like her father.

He thought of the party ahead, and the trouble he would cause for Sherlock if he went through with this. Not that Sherlock cared at this point.

He thought about his memories, of when he and Sherlock had met for the first time, the second time. When his daughter was born, when Sherlock nearly jumped off the roof.

He thought about his love for the man in front of him, standing in the snow as it flurried all around him, like a bright, white aura, a halo. Like an angel.

He thought about Sherlock's words. He thought about how his choice would never be clear to him at all, and how whatever he chose would leave his life drastically altered, probably for the worse.

And... most prominently, an image that would never, ever leave his mind, played on the silver screen of his brain.

_John had only meant to sing a few bars, but eventually he remembered that the song he was singing was not one meant to be sung partly. Amy knew that, that's why she asked for it, the sneaky little bugger. She reminded him more and more of her other father every day. It bothered him to no end._

_The doctor sang and sang. How he loved this prescious little girl. He thought that no matter what happened that night between him and Sherlock, she would always be loved and have a home to go to, no matter how old she was or how much she hated him eventually (she had to be a teenager someday, after all). Even if she was strange and articulate for a three-year old, John couldn't help but see so much potential. After all, she had to be destined for great things, having Sherlock Holmes as a father._

_John sighed right before the next verse, and leaned his head back against the headboard. He closed his eyes as he sang, and when he opened them..._

_It was... It was him. He hadn't seen John look up. His eyes were closed, so he hadn't noticed the subtle movement of John's head. He wanted to gasp, but he kept singing, afraid he'd move away before John got a closer look._

_"And I hope that you'll know, that nature is so, the same rain that draws you near me falls on rivers and land, and forests and sand, makes the beautiful world that you see, in the morning."_

_Sherlock was singing silently along with the words, and... he was crying. John kept singing, John kept wanting to cry himself. But he didn't. He didn't cry when there was nothing left to cry about. He'd cried to many times those past two years. He let Sherlock cry, because frankly, the man hadn't cried enough._

_The prying man, whose eyes had opened after the last verse that Amy had also sang, was staring at the girl, so he still didn't notice John looking at him. If he had, he didn't let on, didn't move away. John looked down, wondering what Sherlock was staring at about the girl, and then he realized she was staring back._

_"Everything's fine in the morning."_

_John's voice cracked slightly, but Amy's masked his perfectly. He looked back up to Sherlock, his head slumped to the door frame. He could visibly see the man shaking._

_"The rain'll be gone in the morning."_

_It was raining outside, it was snowing. He couldn't see it, but knew it was there. The snow was pleasant, but cold. Uninviting and terrifying. He suddenly wished he wasn't leaving the safety of his daughter in his arms._

_"But... I'll still be here in the morning..."_

_'Sherlock,' he thought. '_Will_ I still be here in the morning?'_

"John?" Sherlock repeated.

The moment passed, and there was one singular thought in his brain again. This one was of Sherlock's outstretched hand, his concerned face, and the cab honking its horn behind him.

"Come now John, we don't want to be late. You're the one who put me up to this after all," Sherlock accused. "What's gotten into you?"

John shook his head, smiling sadly. "Nothing, nothing, just worried about leaving Amy all alone tonight," he lied, though it was partially truth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but for a split second he thought he caught equal amounts of worry in his eyes, as much as Johns. "Dolores will be fine, Mrs. Hudson will take care of her. Let's just get this over with, alright?" The man was pleading with him, motioning John down the steps with his head.

John sighed, and smiled brightly, albeit fakely. He stepped forward cautiously. "Alright," he said, and he took Sherlock's arm and dragged him down the steps, closing the door behind him.

"Alright," he said again. "I'm going, I'm going."

_I'm leaving, Sherlock. I can't stay. It's for the best._

As Sherlock got into the cab, John stood there for a moment as the snow swirled around him. His phone had buzzed with a text, and he told the driver one minute, and turned around to check the message.

On the screen, in big bright red letters, were five enraging words, and one singular letter.

_Aren't you tired of lying?_

_-M_

* * *

><p><strong>DUN DUN DUUUUUUUN! What did you think? This is where that song "Lullabye for a Stormy Night" comes in, remember from that playlist I gave you. It's by Vienna Teng, and when I heard it, I thought "John HAS to sing this to Dolores!" xD Anywho, gotta go to school, don't know when the next chapter is coming out, but I hope it made you satisfied.<strong>

**As always, read and review my lovelies! **


	20. Drinking Champagne

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 4,758 words.

**Rating:** T for this chapter

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Kidnapping

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** So... I'm really really sorry about this. I literally had NO Sherlock muse for the longest time (hence my Phantom crossover, of which I had muse for). I still can't figure out how to continue Come Home. BUUUUT the good news is my muse for THIS fic and its upcoming sequel is back! A lot of things are awkward in this chapter, hence why it took so long, but I'm glad people are still reviewing and loving this fic! Enjoy this extra long chapter of Written in the Stars! Only a few more left until the big finale, and then SEQUEL TIME! 8D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

* * *

><p>The cab ride was silent... for the most part.<p>

The only sound for a long while, really, was the sound of John's discomfort. He fidgeted, tapped his fingers impatiently on the armrest, rubbed his neck, coughed, glanced this way and that, checked his phone multiple times as if Moriarty was going to send another text every other minute...

Surely Sherlock Holmes, the world's most observant man, would have noticed this. Even he had to agree that John's behavior was unusual, but he was silent beside him. John looked at him more than once, and found him staring intently out the window, seemingly thinking. That was it, really, just thinking, not deducing, not scrutinizing his every move. That was so very unlike him, and yet... he looked almost peaceful. Which... was considerably more than he could say for himself.

John really didn't want to go to this party, but he had realized that Sherlock needed to go. It wasn't a matter of pleasing his brother, but that John himself needed pleasing. He had thought that maybe Sherlock would be able to rescue him from making this brash decision by mending things. Well... perhaps it wasn't that brash. He had been deliberating over it for some time, two years in fact. Leaving and all...

He had asked himself before why he had to make a big deal about it, why he couldn't just leave. Well... how could he? How could he just leave, knowing how unstable Sherlock was, knowing how much he needed his presence and his very life in his? It might be the obvious choice to stay, to try and work it out, but then he realized- with a sinking and harrowing feeling, like the _Titanic_ falling to the bottom of the ocean- that all he was doing was hurting himself.

_Like a drug..._

'_It's all we ever do anymore... fight...' _he thought. _'He's like a drug I can't quit..."_

His phone felt hot and heavy in his hands as he turned it over again and again. Everything was crashing, like he was coming down from a high. Two years of (mostly) bliss, and here it is... the final problem. Here he was, standing at a fork in the road. His sanity and his daughter were waiting at the end of one path, and... And Sherlock at the other.

_Could be dangerous. -SH_

Why he kept the texts from the beginning, he doesn't know. _Convenience_, he supposed. He looked at them now. Everything was so effortless then. He didn't have to pretend, not like now. After he found out Sherlock was Amy's father... everything seemed pressurized and contained, like the truth is waiting to burst out at the seams. It could come from his mouth... or Moriarty's.

He'd deleted the message almost immediately, lest Sherlock feel bored enough to rifle through his phone during the evening. He could dismiss Moriarty as some nutter, as he'd done years before, but he was afraid his erratic and nervous behavior might alert Sherlock of his deception.

Sherlock was smart, of course. Very smart. But when it comes to social graces, the man can't be held accountable for anything, least of all realizing that Amy was his daughter. Sometimes John couldn't believe it himself. But then she'd run up to him in excitement, the same way Sherlock does, and jabber on about something amazing she'd discovered, then apologize saying she just wanted to tell someone. She was just like her father, and he wished Sherlock knew it.

But he couldn't know it.

Sherlock would feel obligated. Sherlock would understand the responsibilities of being a parent, and he would lose himself in that. He would force himself to smile, a mold of politeness, and be brave for John. In fact, though he was often an irreproachable dick and was often lost in his own head- his mind palace so to speak- John felt that Sherlock would be a "perfect" father. He would read books on how to parent, he would absorb as much information as possible, and he would interact with Amy accordingly. Again... a "perfect" father.

Textbook. It would be an interesting subject to study to him. He was afraid that this was what all Amy would be to him, a new experiment. Sherlock would understand, he would comprehend that the girl needed her father to love her, but he wouldn't be able to digest it. He wouldn't be able to love her like John loved her, wouldn't be able to parent her with feelings, but facts. There would be statistics, and he would lecture her, and...

Amy, the dear sweet girl that she was... would become just like him.

Sherlock was a lucky man that he had someone like John, who loved him and understood him. He was so seriously afraid, however, that Amy wouldn't have the same, if she turned out to be the archetypal Holmes. She would be lonely, just as Sherlock had been lonely for the longest time.

This was why he had to leave. If she was raised around him, even if she didn't know he was her father, she would become just like him, after being around him for so long. He was _saving_ her. He was saving the both of them from heartache.

_God, what am I doing? I love him... I love him... _he thought as inch by inch his hand slid closer to Sherlock. It was resting between them on the leather seat of the cab. _I love you Sherlock, please let me love you. If you let me love you then I could trust you, I really could. I could trust you, and then we'd all be one big happy, if not dysfunctional family. I could teach you how to love. You know, loving someone is a wonderful feeling, almost as if you're floating, a kind of exhilaration. It's not all chemicals, not at all. That's part of it, but that's what makes it so special. It's when the chemicals react that everything just... fits. Like you fit me, you know? We're like a chemical compound, or whatever it is that doesn't separate except for only under extreme circumstances..._

He had a feeling that Sherlock was looking at his hand.

John stopped, and moved his hand back towards himself, to rest it on his thigh. The other hand was still holding his phone. He sighed, resigning himself to a nap as the rest of the ride took place (the Holmes estate was farther out into the country), when a phone rang with a text. He looked down, thinking it might be his, but it wasn't.

He looked to his left, and saw Sherlock taking out his phone from his pocket to answer the message. It was probably Lestrade with details of a case... or was he at the party? He could have sworn that when Mycroft called the day before he said that Lestrade would be there, as well as Molly, and Donovan and Anderson (why they would want to attend, he didn't know; probably being forced by Greg, no doubt)... Everyone but Mrs. Hudson was going to be there, because she was watching Amy, who was too young to go to a party like this.

Confused, John reasoned it must be Mycroft wondering where Sherlock and John were.

But it couldn't have been Mycroft, because John almost thought that all the blood had literally drained from Sherlock's face as he read the message... Almost. But he was just imagining things, right? Had to be the light of the moon on his face or something.

However Holmes was completely silent. It was as if he wasn't breathing (ah, right, breathing's boring), but John thought he might have become a statue. "Sherlock... are-are you alright?" he asked, turning slightly to face him.

"Fine, fine," Sherlock replied quickly, stuffing his phone into his pocket. John noticed with unease that he'd neglected to reply to the message. "Of course I'm fine, did I say I wasn't fine? Why wouldn't I be fine?"

John was dazed at the man's swift reply. "N-nothing, nothing... no... _reason_," he enunciated sharply at the last, and looked away. He tapped his own phone, gripping it tighter.

A few moments passed, and John finally began again. "Was that-"

"None of your business, yes."

"M-... ah," he finished. Of course.

"Right... Right..." He said, shaking his head and putting his own phone in his pocket. He was beginning to feel nervous around those things.

John let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"So..." he held up in offering.

"So..." Sherlock repeated, now looking out the window again.

"So..." John said again... He looked down, and fiddled with his fingers. "Are you going to talk to me?" The least he could do was try to get him to speak.

"There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock replied. John sighed, worried that this would be a problem. If he wasn't going to speak to him, then how could he explain to him everything that was going on in his head? He wanted to tell Sherlock now, tell Sherlock at least part of it so that he would want to know more, the curious git that he was. That way... maybe he would give him a reason to stay, something logical to take a hold of.

"Oh, I think there's plenty to talk about," he said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

He looked at Sherlock again, but Holmes turned his head. He said nothing in reply.

* * *

><p>"<em>Brother<em>! How _good _to see you!"

Mycroft clapped hold of Sherlock's hand and shook hard. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop pretending. It's dull, and positively un_sight_ly," he retorted.

The elder Holmes's mouth drew a line, and Sherlock heard John chuckle behind him as they passed Mycroft into the party. "Happy Birthday," the Government mumbled as he followed them.

Already Sherlock was beginning to feel stuffy. Before he knew it, two hands were stilling his. He looked down, and saw John glaring at him. "I told you to keep the tie _on_," he said, his hands dropping to his neck to adjust his own tie. His eyes fluttered away.

Sherlock blinked, but continued loosening his tie. He said nothing.

He walked slowly through the party. The party for _him_... Suddenly, the world was moving in slow motion, and yet... he could barely keep up. There was Lestrade greeting him by the punchbowl. Molly, with her lipstick, and her narrow gaze at John, but a smile. There was Donovan and Anderson, and ah, wife away for a _week_ Anderson? Aren't you a lucky lad...

He sighed, hands dipping into his pockets so that he might drum his fingers on his legs. John always noticed this sort of thing and would know he was bored... Oh god, but did it matter? John wasn't even...

"Sherlock!"

That sound... was most definitely...

Sherlock's head whipped around and he nearly slammed himself into the h'orderves, but instead merely bumped the table and caused the few people (whom he didn't know) around him to immediately judge him as clumsy and awkward, by the narrowing of their eyes and the way they slunk away from him lest he deign to socialize with them (ha!). They were just here for the food and favor anyway...

However... _she _wasn't.

He swallowed and gave an awkward smile. "Hello, mother..."

Violet Holmes, with her sophisticated gray hair and sharp way of dressing, was the antithesis of a successful woman, despite being past her prime. And you know, here he was, tie loose and hair matted from nervousness simply because the three Holmes relatives were under one roof (which was easily enough to drive anyone away screaming, which was odd considering no one was leaving). It wasn't nearly from their father's side that Mycroft and Sherlock had received their intellectual prowess. The woman was a viper.

Although her younger son was the least successful of the two, he had always been her favorite. He used to like to rub it in Mycroft's face, but after their father died any time Violet was near she preferred to smother Sherlock with praise and her bosom. It was utterly nauseating.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's aversion to touch wasn't present in Violet Holmes. When he was seen, he was suffocated in a choke-hold (read: embrace) and kissed perhaps 500 (read: four) times in the span of less than a minute.

"Darling, darling, happy birthday!"

Sherlock smiled. He wished he had his mother's vivacity. "Thank you, mother," he said softly. His sharp eyes flickered over her silver hair (she was shorter than him by at least half a head), scanning the room to be sure his brother wasn't seeing this embarrassing display of affection.

No, his brother was nowhere in sight. But...

There was _John._

He was chatting with some woman at the bar. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Was that a beer? Oh dear, if he didn't act now, his plans would be ruined. John might spend the night with the entirely too busy secretary who should not have even been invited to this party in the first place. Really, Sherlock believed in hard work and getting the job done, but the woman looked as if she might fall over from exhaustion.

Sherlock moved away from his mother with a weak smile and an equally weak wave. She called after him, but he wasn't listening. He could only hear one thing, and that was the thing he wished desperately to claw inside his ears and extract as swiftly as possible.

John's laughter.

The dull hum of the party was nothing compared to the chortled, tip-toeing echoing in his brain. As vividly as this was the sound of the singing, and the scolding, and the shouting, and the sighing, and the sobbing... The sounds echoed back and forth as the slow motion slowed further, and each step he took toward John felt like a lifetime.

Each step was harder. Each breath was faster. Each heartbeat was louder.

Looking at John was a drug, and this laughter of his was an overdose.

Two steps more, Sherlock... Two steps more, and then... he would tell him.

He reached out to touch his arm.

"Joh-"

A beep. John's phone. Call, not text. Chiming ringtone: the flat.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he stepped back a little. John looked at him in confusion, but he looked away from those dull blue eyes, folding his arms behind his back and smiling placidly at the tired girl John had been courting. She nodded pathetically, and muttered an equally disappointing "happy birthday" in return, moving away.

John reached out to pause her flight, but sighed in defeat (GOD that sigh). He looked at Sherlock, then shook his head, taking out his still ringing phone and answering it reluctantly.

"Hello?" he heard John say even as he moved to the other end of the bar. John plugged his other ear with his index finger so he could hear, but the music was hardly voluminous to Sherlock. The taller man crossed his arms and leaned against the wood of the bar, looking to the ground and concentrating on the words John was saying.

"Amy, Amy, calm down! What's the matter?"

Sherlock blinked. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the thoughts crawling to his consciousness as if by shaking them from his moppy hair.

"Oh, sweetheart... It's alright to have a bad dream every once in awhile. It just means you're human."

He felt a tap on his shoulder and saw a glass of champagne resting on a napkin pushed his way. He barely got to look at the man who had offered it before he walked away after whispering something about "for the birthday boy." Of course that didn't mean he couldn't tell the person was like just by their backside, their gait, the way they swung their arms...

"Mrs. Hudson is there to protect you. If you get scared, just run to her room and you can sleep with her. I'm sure she won't mind."

… Nothing from the man walking away. He blinked, not for the first time in his life unsure of himself, but indeed for the first time where it didn't concern John.

"Don't worry Amy, dad will be home soon. He just has to take care of a little business here at the party, alright?"

He looked down at the offering on the bar. Normally he would suspect the contents of a glass given to him by a stranger as toxic and dangerous, but there was that laughing still echoing in his ears. The thoughts weren't going away. Warily, Sherlock picked up the flute. He didn't normally drink, but a bit of champagne might calm his nerves. He would have liked a cigarette, but John threw most of the ones in the flat away. He'd used up the rest two weeks before when the doctor was away on business.

"Alright then. I'll tell him. And I love _you_!" John's voice smiled.

Looking back at John, Sherlock sipped his champagne a little, noticing no alarming textures or after-tastes, but of course that only eliminated 190 possibilites from the cesspool of poison to choose from. Still, he liked to be daring.

"I'll be careful, darling. We're taking a cab, remember? Uncle Sherlock's mum lives out in the country. You have nothing to worry about!" He could feel John's voice cracking.

Sherlock turned away, knowing John might turn back to him now that his conversation was almost finished. He looked down at the bar, and noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

"I told you I'd tell him, and I'll tell him. And you and I, we'll throw him a party of our own tomorrow, how does that sound?"

When he looked closer, written plainly on the off-white napkin was the letter M, painted in blood.

"Okay? Okay! There now, don't you feel better?"

The flute of champagne shook in his hand as he stared at the letter. The flimsy glass might break from the pressure.

"Go to sleep now, Amelia. I'll be there when you wake up, I promise."

Sherlock lashed his head up to where the man had fled, but of course there was no sign of him. A feeble and foolish hope.

"Goodbye, love. Sleep well."

The grip on the glass loosened. Sherlock placed his hand over the napkin and crumpled it up, stuffing it in his pocket and blinking to rid himself of the emotions on his face. John came back with a smile on his face, but his eyes told his true emotion.

John stood there, and Sherlock looked down at him with an acute gaze. "Problem?"

The man bit his lips, eyes flickering away from Sherlock's as he scratched his head. "Eh, no not really... Just had a bad dream, that's all."

Sherlock nodded, setting his champagne on the bar. "Then all is well?"

"I'm sorry, you... you wanted to tell me something," John interrupted. He looked disjointed, burnt out, drained of energy. He shrugged with a waning smile. "I'm all ears."

Something... different. That was it, something different about John. From the way he tapped his foot to his barely kept smile to the absence of a tremor in his left hand, Sherlock deduced his emotion easily. He was both anxious and... _terrified_ at the same time.

"Perhaps we should talk elsewhere... I suppose my old lab will do."

He motioned for John to follow him, and the man did so. Loyal until the very last. Sherlock could guess what was on his mind, very easily, and the easy thing would have been to hide himself behind another female. He admired John's bravery.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, his eyes twitching at that thought. His hand in his pocket touched the napkin, and he licked his lips.

They passed by a few drunken party-goers on their way to the lab, but they made it there in due time. Sherlock flicked open the keypad and pressed the numbers he knew so well into the system. The door unlocked, and he allowed John in first.

The doctor looked all around, justifiably amazed at the room. Well, at least Sherlock thought so. The remnants of experiments and accomplishments past brought a twinge of pride to his mind.

"This was where you studied..." John mumbled, fingers glazing over a microscope on the illuminated table. "It's like St. Bart's, except even more..." One of the pieces came undone because of misuse, and Sherlock fled to his side and caught the piece before it could fall to the linoleum and shatter.

"Expensive. That's the word you're looking for." He set the piece back into place and gave John an annoyed look. "If you don't mind, I'm still conducting some of the experiments in here, so if you'd refrain from _touching_ anything, that would be splendid."

"I was going to say advanced..." John shuffled away to an open area on the floor, hardly affected by Sherlock's sharp tongue. "Then why did you bring me here, if I can hardly move without bumping into some groundbreaking experiment?"

Sherlock blinked. "Well... This is the only place I know we won't be disturbed. Mother never comes in here, even when she's looking for me, and Mycroft's DNA is wired to trigger an alarm if he even breathes on the keypad."

John's spurted a laugh, his eyes twinkling with that happiness he hadn't seen in a long time. It was just like Sherlock to make him laugh at a time like this. The detective couldn't smile.

"John," he said to quiet him.

He did so. Good lad.

He wouldn't look at him though. He just stared at a rhododendron poster on the opposite wall, which highlighted the cell makeup and uses of the plant.

"Listen, I-"

The shorter man held out a hand. "Sherlock, I... I need to tell you something first, okay? I..." he looked up at him. "I've been thinking. I can't stop thinking, so I need to get this off my chest, okay?"

Sherlock's lips drew into a line. The lie. This was the lie. He was going to tell him the lie, exume all those skeletons in his closet. It's what Sherlock had suspected, but he hadn't been sure.

"Alright."

John licked his lip in his usual way, staring at Sherlock's tie as if it could give him support. He breathed a deep breath.

"We're leaving. Amy and I. I've been thinking about this for a while, and I just think it's time, you know. We're... We're too different, and I know that's the same tired old speech, but it's the truth. Your kind of work is dangerous. Sure, of course it's all good fun, but..." John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

The man blinked. "That's... That's it? My life is too _dangerous_ for you?"

John looked down to the ground, an almost ashamed expression coming to his face. He folded his hands in front of him.

"I say dangerous, and you come running." Sherlock looked away. "You're lying to me. This isn't what you wanted to say."

John's breath hitched. The lie. He knew it was the lie... It had to be.

"You don't want to leave, Jo-"

"Yes I do!" he barked. Sherlock flinched at the tone of his voice. It was the yelling again. "I want to leave, Sherlock, I need to leave!"

"Leave Baker Street, leave your life? And how do you think Dolores will feel about that? How do you _really _feel about that?"

John shoved a hand through his hair, licking his lip again in frustration. "It's not about how I feel, it's about what's best."

Sherlock scoffed. "Dear God, your logic astounds me! How did you come up with that, I wonder?"

John scowled, his eyes bearing right into Sherlock's. "Don't play games with me, Sherlock Holmes." His anger was visible from the redness of his cheeks to the clenching of his firsts.

"You can't just pick up and walk away from your life like a coward! What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking about YOU!"

Sherlock was pushed up against the rhododendron wall.

"All I can ever think about is you, don't you get that? How is it sane, how is it healthy to love someone who can never love you back?" He paused, his nostrils fuming. "I promised you I wouldn't try for it, because I respect your wishes. I promised you that, and I'm damn well keeping my promise."

His voice cracked, and he looked away.

Sherlock stood against the wall, hand in his pocket and fingering the bloodied napkin. Who's blood had that been? Moriarty's? A victim's?

"John-"

He held a hand up to stop him. "No. I don't care if I'm your blogger, or your only friend, or whatever. Because you keep teasing me! You keep promising things and then you just... You just fall apart! I like to be strong, I am strong! For my daughter and for myself, I thought I was strong enough to face you every day, look you in the eye and pretend that I don't care about you, but the fact is I do." He swallowed, standing straighter than the rigid posture he'd had before. "I'm afraid... afraid of what you'll think of me, in ten years time, in twenty years time if it comes to that, when I'm still hopelessly in love with you. You'll think me a fool then as you do now. I don't want to be made foolish, Sherlock. We're both better than that."

With that, he turned away.

Sherlock blinked, his brows furrowing. "Where are you going?"

"Home... for now," he called back as he reached the door to the lab. He turned back to look at Sherlock with an almost peaceful expression. "I'm sorry Sherlock." He opened the door and muttered sadly, "Enjoy your party."

He was gone.

Sherlock followed, but by the time he reached the door John was already twenty paces ahead of him. When he was like this, he wouldn't stop until he reached where he was going. It was a brisk pace he knew well.

"John!" he called again, now having to push through the crowd. All around him people were wishing him happy birthday. This wasn't happy at all! He never wanted John to leave! All he wanted was to understand! This wasn't right!

"John!" All around him the faces were melting in his panic. John's form was the only clear thing in his vision, and he was now 30 paces ahead of him, the blurry people blocking his movement. Out on the lawn it didn't matter if he ran; he couldn't catch John for all the thoughts tumbling in his head. They were usually so organized. It was as if someone had slammed into a file cabinet and yanked every drawer free, letting the papers fly everywhere.

When he reached the entrance of the Holmes estate, he knew it was already too late. He stood huffing by the iron gate, watching John walk away down the street. He was a fool... Both of them were.

It didn't matter anymore. Sherlock looked to the ground, digging into his pocket to fetch his phone. He could at least call John a cab, and one for himself as well.

He touched the napkin from before. Sighing, he pulled it out just as the wind picked up speed.

He wiped his bangs from his eyes, the blowing air making them obstruct his view. The red letter M whirred in the breeze.

Sherlock suddenly noticed that something was written on the back of the napkin. The wind blew it over his fingers gently, and he turned it around in his freezing, clammy fingers.

In black sharpie, in bold, angry letters:

_JOHNNY BOY IS A LIAR. LIAR LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE, HANGING ON A TELEPHONE WIRE!_

Sherlock drew a breath, crushing the napkin in his hands and ripping it to shreds. He snarled at the man who was not there, the man who had been taunting him for far too long.

Somewhere down the road, a scream was heard, but it was muffled quickly. Sherlock looked up and saw a van pull to the side of the road. His eyes widened.

"NO!" he yelled, taking off in a sprint.

The doors opened, and two men had gagged, bound, and blindfolded John, throwing him inside and following themselves. Two more men closed the back door and headed to the front, getting in and driving off.


	21. Good Luck

**Title:** Written in the Stars

**Author:** Rewrittengirl

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 2,615 words.

**Rating:** T

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Jim Moriarty, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

**Pairing(s):** Johnlock

**Genre:** Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

**Warning(s):** Kidnapping

**Contains:** In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

**Notes:** At least this wait wasn't NEARLY as long as the last, though it was still long, and I apologize. The next chapter of Come Home is going REALLY slowly, because I'm not sure how the plot should be set up for that particular chapter, though the beginning is complete. I would expect a chapter of _Living Corpse_ before Come Home, and another chapter of this before Come Home as well. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, as there are only a few left before the epilogue, and then I can start on the sequel, which is currently titled _The Black Butterfly_. The title is subject to change, however, but I felt I could at least share it with you for now. :3 Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.

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><p>John felt that the bottom of the van was far too cold to his liking, but he couldn't protest.<p>

He didn't know where he was, or who had taken... No, he knew exactly who had taken him. What for, he couldn't imagine. He'll probably be killed, or perhaps tortured. The only thought in his mind was what was going to happen to Amelia.

He struggled against the bonds that had been swiftly tied to his wrists behind his back. They were beginning to chafe considerably, and he grunted as he tried to move his hands in any way. He had been blindfolded and gagged, unable to even sigh. He hadn't seen who had taken him, but it didn't really matter what they looked like, only what they were driving.

Sherlock had seen the vehicle. He had seen what was going on, he would surely find him!

… That was, if Sherlock still cared.

John heard talking all around him. There were men with distinct voices, and some not so clear. They were perhaps in the driver's and passenger's seats. Suddenly, he heard a loud beep, signaling a call. It sounded just like his own phone...

He felt a rough jerk of his head as one of the men grabbed his hair and pulled him up to rest on his knees. He screamed in pain from slamming hard into the metal, especially when his psychosomatic wound felt like it wanted to be real today.

The blindfold was taken off John's eyes, and he had to blink away tears, exhaustion, and fear before he could see what was before him. It was dark in the back of the van, but he could make out a few faces, namely the one of the man that was holding him. He had dark skin, but dyed, short blonde hair. There were a few tattoos on his face, but none that John could make out clearly.

The gag was removed as well, but the man placed a calloused, rough finger against John's lips, signifying that he was not allowed to speak. The phone was still beeping.

In a thick Welsh accent, the man told him quietly, "You're only to say hello. Act normal, or your body temperature won't be, understand?"

John nodded, swallowing and licking his very dry lips. He looked to the man's other hand, and realized the phone in it had been in his own pocket, and was ringing. He was going to let him answer his phone, when he had been kidnapped?

The man placed the phone next to John's ear and hit the talk button. With as much courage and normalcy as he could muster, he said in a very clear and calm voice, "Hello?"

"John? Oh John, thank God!"

John tilted his head. "Mrs. Hudson? What's the matter?" Why would the woman be calling him and not Sherlock in an emergency? Better yet, was Sherlock around to hear this call?

The woman began sobbing. "Mrs. Hudson, please, you have to tell me what's the matter!" He looked up to the man holding him and the phone, and he nodded at him. It would seem what he was saying was acceptable.

"It's... John, it's Amy!"

John's heart stopped. Then, like an a lightning bolt, it jolted into overdrive. "Amy?! What- what happened, what's wrong with Amy?!"

"She's gone, John! I just nipped out to the shop next door to fetch some tea, and when I came back to check on her she was gone!"

John's legs wanted to give out on him, but the man held him up firmly by the arm.

"I-I..." Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "I had thought she was still in the bed, but when I folded back the covers... There was a dead body under it. It was a baby, with its head chopped off and a cross carved on her chest! A little girl, John! How could anyone be so... so cruel?!"

Tears began forming in John's eyes, but he would not let them fall. The first rule of being kidnapped was not to show any kind of weakness. "Mrs. Hudson, call 999 first, and then call Sherlock. I'll... I'll be there as soon as I-"

"Oh! Sherlock dear! Oh Lord, something horrible has happened!"

John heard Sherlock's voice. Why hadn't he...?

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John's been kidnapped, I know." So nonchalant, the bloody bastard.

He could practically see Mrs. Hudson's already wide eyes widening even more. "What?! But, but Sherlock, I have John on the phone right now!"

"... What did you say? What?! JOHN! Give me that phone!"

"SHERLOCK!" John cried to let him know he was alright.

The device was ripped from his hands by the man who was holding him. He crushed it in his palm and let the pieces drop to the floor. There was hardly anything left.

John shook and gulped as he was thrown back to the ground, staring at the pieces of his mobile in fear. Without blinking, before John could even react, the man raised his hand and slammed his fist into John's face. He hit the metal of the van and fell unconscious.

There hadn't even been time to trace the call.

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><p>Almost immediately after awakening from his violence-induced mini-coma, John heard a ringing in his ears and felt a wetness coating his forehead. Whether it was blood, sweat, or a mixture of both he didn't know. He couldn't touch it, because he could feel his hands still tied behind his back.<p>

John didn't know how long he'd been out. He was slumped up against something like glass, because he could feel the coolness of it pressed against his cheek. He wasn't gagged, nor was he blindfolded, but he refrained from opening his eyes until he was sure of his surroundings using his other senses. Valuable information could be gained without using your eyesight... someone had told him once.

His eyes flickered open without his approval at the mere thought of Sherlock. He realized all too soon that he shouldn't move his head, lest his brains spill out from beneath his blood-soaked skull. He groaned, closing his eyes again and seeing red beneath the lids. This wasn't the first time he'd woken up from being hit in the back of the head, but the experience didn't get better with age. Usually there was someone there to keep his focus acute, but he didn't sense anyone around him.

Slowly, but surely, he opened his eyes again. The room was dim, but bright enough for him to see everything, including himself in the mirror. It was a four walled room, each wall a looking glass. It was as if he was staring at a thousand images of himself...

And his daughter.

His head whipped to the side. BAD IDEA. Bit not good, that. He cried out in pain, wishing he could hold his head, but the only thing he was thinking of was how his daughter was on the other side of the room, just as slumped and unconscious as he was.

"Amy..." he muttered desperately, his breathing ragged from the pain. "Amy, sweetheart."

He began slowly crawling toward her, as best he could without the use of his arms. As he moved closer he examined her for any injuries. He wanted to look away when he saw the bruises coating her arms and legs... What had they done to her?

He didn't see any blood, thank God, but that didn't mean there wasn't serious damage.

"Amy!" he half sobbed, half yelled. Finally, she began to stir as he reached her. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw John hovering over her. "Dad!" she cried, and made a move to embrace him, but then realized ropes tied her hands behind her back. She struggled with them, but he did his best to calm her.

"It's best not to move, sweetheart. It'll only make it worse..." he said, and looked at her sadly. "I am so sorry for all of this... Those men... They hurt you didn't they?"

Amy looked to the ground and sniffled a little. "I... I couldn't get back to sleep after that dream. I just sat in bed and read the book you and Uncle Sherlock bought me. I figured the butterflies would help me sleep, like they always do. They didn't help, so then I sang our song a little. That didn't help either. I still had a bad feeling. And then, a few minutes after that... I... I...!"

The girl began to sob and collapse onto John's lap. He wanted to hold her in his arms badly, but he settled for whispering to her. "Shhh, it's alright love. I promise you no one is going to hurt you anymore."

"_Are you so sure about that, Johnny boy?"_

Watson looked up and turned. No one was in the room. The voice... A thick Irish accent, high pitched and whiny. He moved closer to Amy to protect her, somewhat. "Who's there?"

The voice ignored his question. _"I think little bitty Do-Re-Mi over there has been hurting for a long time, don't you agree?"_

Amy lifted her head, and John looked down at her. "Dad... who is that man?"

"_Awwwwuh, isn't she precious? I could just take her and squeeze her and eat her-"_

"SHUT UP!" John snapped, his head turned to the other mirror. All he saw was his furious expression.

"_Oooh, tut tut tut! Where are your manners, Johnny boy? Surely you don't want your very _special _little girl to learn such language?"_

John turned to Amy and nudged her to sit up. "Amy, just stay right here, alright?"

The girl nodded, wiping her eyes with her shoulder and moving into a curled position.

Her father, with as much strength as he could muster, got up and stood in the middle of the room, looking up. The ceiling was black, as was the floor. He couldn't see an intercom system anywhere.

"Look, I don't know who you are, but just leave my daughter and I alone! Your business is with Sherlock, and we have nothing more to do with him!"

The voice let out screeching laughter. He looked down to Amy, who began to cry.

"_I think you have everything to do with him, don't you Johnny boy? Ohh... I'm so tired of teasing Sherlock, really I am. He won't tease me back! So now I'm going to torture him. I'm sure he'll gladly return the favour, and then the games can begin!"_

"Games, what games? What are you going to do with him?!"

"_Now doesn't that sound like the tone of a man who has nothing to do with the detective... You're very convincing, mutt."_

John's brow furrowed. "That's not... You're twisting my words, I just meant-"

"_We all know what you meant, Johnny."_

"Stop calling me that!" Behind his back John's hands clenched and he seethed, his nostrils emitting heat with each angry breath he took.

"Dad..." He looked down and saw Amy's sad, sad eyes.

The voice spoke again, this time with more malice than before. _"I'll give you five minutes, Johnny boy, to say goodbye to your precious little lives, and then..."_

"And then what? You'll kill us?! Just like that?!" John snapped. He could hear Amy's crying escalate, and realized his words weren't helping any. "For God's sakes, she's a child!"

"_Not just any child! It would be a shame take her life, considering her... parentage. But I'm afraid it must be done!"_

John's breath caught in his throat. Yes he knew, of course he knew. Moriarty had known for years... And now they were both going to die because of it? John didn't know what to do. "You would take her life just to get to him?! He doesn't even know!"

'_Or care,'_ John thought silently with disappointment. _'If only he would care...'_

"_Does _she_ know? Don't you think she ought to? Time is ticking. You've wasted two minutes. Three left, and so much to say!"_

He couldn't argue with him. Amy's father had always been within her reach, and yet he kept her from the truth. She always asked who her mother was, but he never had the courage to tell her.

"_Tick tock, Johnny!"_

"Dad... Dad, I don't want to die..." Amy cried, her sobs echoing off the mirrors of the room. John kneeled beside her, resting his head against hers in the absence of his arms. "I don't want to die! I don't want _you_ to die! What about Uncle Sherlock... And mummy's out there! Mummy'll never know!"

Just another stab to John's guilty heart. He let out a soft sob himself, knowing he'd have to tell her. He wouldn't be able to die peacefully, knowing she didn't know. He couldn't care less if Sherlock knew... But he didn't want to lie anymore. No more lies! No more taunting from the man about to kill them! No more dancing around the truth like it was the last he would ever dance...

"Amy..." he swallowed. He glanced up to the ceiling, as if that was where the voice was watching them. "Amy, I have something to tell you... Listen to me good and well, alright?"

She nodded, her eyes red with fear and exhaustion. He sighed, his nose and brow wrinkling in disgust at what was happening to his daughter. And truly... it was all his fault.

"You... You don't have a mummy, sweetheart. You never have... It's hard to explain, and I know that the books say everyone has a mummy, but you... I..." Confusion was spreading over her face. Two more minutes.

"...Four years ago, I met someone... A glorious someone, who I barely knew, but he knew everything about me just by looking at me. And... I..." He closed his eyes, unready, but unable to deny the truth any longer. "I fell in love with him almost instantly. After that night, I didn't see him again for another year or so... I didn't know it was him, though by all rights I should have. Because... You look just like him."

Amy's eyebrows furrowed, just like her father's. John shook his head. "I know this is a lot to take in, but you're so brilliant, just like him you know. Well... Anyway, in the meantime I had you. I... If we were to get technical, I suppose _I'd_ be your mummy. I don't know how it happened, but I gave birth to you."

The girl sniffed, and she shook her head. "But if you're my mummy, then who's my daddy?"

Less than minute. John couldn't breathe. He didn't know if he could do this... but he had to. She had to know.

A deep breath.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Almost as soon as Amy's eyes widened with realization, the room flooded with light. John whipped his head around. Bad idea. Head trauma still present.

Slowly he lifted his head again and gazed at the mirror-wall to his left. He gasped.

Two-way mirror. Sherlock Holmes.

He stood in the very middle of the room on the opposite side of the mirror. His expression... it made John want to crawl into a hole and throw up. Then maybe die of embarrassment.

If he could have his hand would have flown to his mouth. Not just from the shock of seeing Sherlock standing there, presumably having heard every word he said. Not just from the words "GOOD LUCK!" etched onto the opposite side of the glass in angry, bold letters.

No, it was mostly the fact that his hand might have prevented him from inhaling the gas that was steadily streaming through the room. Dangerous, definitely. Lethal, yes. Slow killing? They'd have to wait and see.


End file.
